


No Day But Today

by KayMoon24



Series: No Day But Today [1]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2017-12-12 03:37:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 50
Words: 272,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KayMoon24/pseuds/KayMoon24
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because, really this story was just DYING to be written: When the Lord and Master Stan Lee turns around from that table and tells Steve Rogers to ask for Beth's number and then he doesn't? My oh my.</p>
<p>I wonder what would happen if he changed his mind later?</p>
<p>features: Fluff, Dark Plot, tons of niffty 1930-1940's research, Disney, Peggy Carter, Tony being an asshole, massive confusion over secrets from all sides, Steve!Whump, feels, hilariously awkward situations, and 40's slang. All dat 40's slang.</p>
<p>(A huge hello to anyone reading this fic! I actually have the WHOLE updated story on Fanfiction.net, under my author name there of "KayMoon24". I'll link it in this author comment section below! Possibly head over there and let me know what you think?</p>
<p>https://www.fanfiction.net/s/8805807/1/No-Day-But-Today)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Her Name

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all so very much for clicking. Please enjoy.
> 
> features: Fluff, Dark Plot, tons of niffty 1930-1940's research, Disney, Peggy Carter, Tony being an asshole, massive confusion over secrets from all sides, Steve!Whump, feels, hilariously awkward situations, and 40's slang. All dat 40's slang.
> 
> chapter one summary: Steve doesn't know her name, but it's driving himself crazy if he doesn't find it out soon.

*.*.*.*

 

The old man's blue eyes clung to him, reprimanding him with the wisdom of a life spent in watching: Ask for her number, you moron—or you'll survive to see an empty life less lived.

 

*.*.*.*

### Her Name

Steve doesn't know her name.

He's searching for that particular café in the middle of the destruction site for "The Battle Of New York", and he doesn't know its name either. But he knows that's what he keeps going back into the wasted part of the city for.

At first, it was a little touch-and-go about who could enter the perimeter and who was chased off by megaphones and thick wads of police tape, but Steve manages by. It's no secret that newly formed "super hero" team known as _The Avengers_ are pretty much allowed anywhere they wanted to go, and the persona of Tony Stark, if thesis reporters wanted to get really technical, but this was something that Steve felt he had to do on his own. Not as Captain America. Everyone knows Captain America.

No one knows Steve Rogers.

He crosses the yellow and black police tape, lightly pressing the gasoline pedal on his motorcycle less the rev of the engine attract the attention of exhausted ash-stained faces that lurked from police men, S.W.A.T. teams, construction workers and firemen alike; each leaving and returning to the endless burning fire trucks that loitered through the passive turmoil, stretching on for blocks and blocks…

"HEY BUDDY!" A booming megaphone catches Steve's near perfect entrance, and, forcing himself not to act like he was caught in a criminal act, Steve slows down. He turns his head to greet the dirty face of a local police officer with messy black hair and the start of five o'clock shadow drizzling down his throat. "Well, well, well—I thought it might've been you."

Steve's blue eyes widened for a moment as the officer recognizes him. It's been happening more and more lately that he has to be more careful about it, but it catches him off guard every time. Now, people don't notice him like they do Tony Stark. It's not that instantaneous. But every once in a while Steve'll notice someone on the padded seat of the adjacent subway train has been staring at him a little too long, and Steve would immediately exit the next stop beamed at him from the red letters that flash horizontal from a buzzing box above the sliding doors.

"Hey," Steve says offhandedly, ducking his gaze from the approaching boy in blue.

The man studies him curiously. "So…what's this now, the six or seventh time this month?"

_That you've caught me, sounds about right._ Steve finds himself smirking just enough to make this encounter go faster. "Sorry Officer. I just can't stay away."

The dark-haired fella grins. "Nahn, get on with it then, you've got by enough, and you don't seem like no looter either. Hell, wasn't it you that threw some looters at us the other day?"

Steve hides the swell of anxiousness inside of him, thankful that the officer doesn't recognize Captain America from the news, but still the pit grows. He _did_ remove quite a few of those looters not too long ago. "Me? No, no sir I think you're thinking of somebody else." Steve thinks fast and rolls his shoulder for show. "I couldn't do something like that. I hurt my shoulder a while ago."

"Really?" The man raises an eyebrow, revising his picture of the young man's practically perfect physique before him. "When, back in 82' when you were first born?" He chuckled.

_No. Back in 1929 when I was a kid and played street ball with a team that probably included your grandfather._

Steve avoided the question. "It's still okay if I—you know?"

The cop nodded. "Oh, sure, sure, we've seen ya enough—anyway, be careful, ya hear? I don't know what you're looking for, but I hope you find it soon enough."

Surprisingly, the snark in Steve's thoughts can offer up no response. "Yes sir."

He takes a sharp turn and weaves his way around large slabs of fallen buildings; grey and white powered debris that still floats through the air makes it hard for him to breathe. He turns out on another empty street, then another, and further still. Steve knows from his pervious war that war-zones take time, even though most of the dangerous matter has been packed up, but the police are still weary of allowing pedestrians back into the site. From the latest report that Bruce had updated Steve on, the site wouldn't be deserted for long. Apparently government issued passes were going on insurance deposits that consisted of health-safety remains of smaller shop owners and their employees would slowly be allow in to check for damage and to start rebuilding. Tony seemed interested in this innovation, but Steve's smile soon leveled out into a frown. All the time he had spent wondering the area before the attack, and it feels like Bruce and Tony are discussing the funeral reimbursements of a lost friend.

Would the city choose to remake it like before? Steve wanted to cringe. Did most people really take the time to painstakingly re-create the past, or would it be covered up glossily like a wound, cemented and pressed, never allowed to breathe or fester?

Certainly Steve didn't want the citizens that took up prior residents living there homeless or jobless forever—but to talk of rebuilding ripped a bottomless hole in Steve's stomach. It reminded him of when he first woke up in the "re-creation" of that 1940's hospital wing, façaded and misinterpreted for what the time _was_ , and not what it _meant._

Steve's relationship with the city was an odd thing that he kept mostly to himself, because, in all honestly: Steve couldn't explain it. Not to anyone. Certainly not to himself. But something pulled him in.

Before the attack he would often walk the entire length of alphabet city, doubleback around to Central Park, jog Fifth Avenue, and, at the end of the night, stand dazzled, misplaced and a little saddened at the blinking beautiful theatrics of every Broadway theater sign. He preferred the city during the day—there were less lights, less chaos along the streets and he felt he could walk into a crowd and disappear—from himself, from the world, from everyone—and he wouldn't matter anymore. It was the only time he felt he could be a part of something, the spiking wave of fast-paced pedestrian footfall from immigrants to the wealthy alike that had walked the same pavement from 1910 to 2013. It was perhaps the last familiarity that New York held for him. He had to adjust to that idea—the trollies were subway trains, Wi-Fi has replaced the majority of the radio broadcasting, books were now inside electronic hand-held screens called smart phones. He had to rebuilding the entire handmade brick walled universe from his childhood, his adolescence into a nightmare made out of neon and chrome.

He didn't stop trying, however.

He told himself he couldn't live in fear. Or, at least, he certainly couldn't show it.

So he scoured out what comfort he could find. The public libraries were still in their ancient spots. Joe's boxing arena from the 30's, gritty and dusty, still somehow managed to hold itself into management. Brooklyn, for the most part, still looked just as hard pressed and forlorn as it had from Steve's last memory of it, but yet nothing was left of the shops from his boyhood. Not a single newspaper stand, or picture show, or toyshop. His pervious apartment building had been replaced with a shopping outlet, and so he had to find rent in the next best thing: an apartment just south of his past.

It was only when he kept moving that he felt the faintest trace of home. When he stopped, it was as if he wasn't alive anymore. Frozen. Like the lion statues outside of the public library that roared at him with weather stained teeth, emplaced wide eyes that reflected blindness, far past their prime. Steve ran his fingers over the stone of their manes every time he rented a book. He spent a lot of time in there, carrying books back and forth from his living room back to the lions' den. He loved to read—and in a virtual world of invisible connection and isolated headphones, Steve poured over the print, the ink, and explored every dead end detail about World War 2—fleeting over soldiers' names and generals. At the suggestion of S.H.I. , Steve moved on to other major events in U.S. History that stopped any peculiar questions that would slip from the soldier's mouth, such as the 1960's civil rights movements, the rise of terrorism from 89' to 9/11, and the daunting advancement in technology. As hard as he tried, he slammed cover after cover shut over the ladder; he didn't understand computers, nor much of "HD" television sets, or cordless telephones, or mobiles, apple i-somethings or tablets. He didn't need to know, and frankly, didn't want to know.

He didn't understand the American obsession with identity in such a transient, anti-palpable way. Facehead? Tweeter? What happened to physical expression like letters or face to face conversation? Why would he ever set up information about himself for the whole world to see? The last thing this planet needed was another egotist like Stark. But Steve was soon discovering that 'ego' seemed to be the top goal of this new world. People walked around with white buds in their ears that drowned out human speech, fingers aching over mini-computers and cellular phones that sent off impersonal code and messaged to family members down the street. Steve didn't want to admit to seeing all the apathy to the people of the 21st century. It seemed that only huge events shook them to look up from themselves and at the city around them, but it never lasted long. Only those profoundly affected erected memorials, news watches, editorials. The rest of the world moved on with the pages of their monthly calendars, rolled into passing and soon people found themselves bored with staring into the dust that kicked up over the Battle of New York. Once it settled, no one looked back.

Everyone born into the present wanted complete disconnection from one another. From the city, from the social public, the media. The city was all Steve felt he had left and now…

Now they were going to changed everything again. Had too.

Steve told himself that it was a sign that he had to change as well. Although, even as he walked away from Tony and Bruce's debates about architectural design for the disaster site, Steve didn't see much of a point for serving coffee and barter clothes and broken chain watches to fearful ghosts that wouldn't bother to look in the general direction of where the battle took place.

Steve Rogers shakes his head, clearing his thoughts. He senses a decent place to park near the smolder of a thin potted tree and leans his bike against it, stepping off to brush the ash from his hair and face. The tops of these buildings got the worse of the front—the sidewalks broken and stony. The thick panes of the reflective metropolitan glass reflect dully out against the only breathing soul for miles—and Steve finds that he can't stand there for long, feeling silly that the only man that's following him is himself. He picks a direction to walk in and closes his eyes:

_"Get your phones here—practically free phones here—"_ An echo of a street vender calls to him in the back of his mind as he slowly drenches the steps through his memory, searching…

What was he looking for back then? His brows puzzle, and the thought of the café shifts into his memory. The clock that he was trying to draw as he sat there—and—and her. He can picture her so clearly, even after everything that's happened, and he has no idea why. It wasn't her he was looking for. It was the clock _behind_ her. Time. It was time he wanted to watch.

But God, why wouldn't she leave him alone now? All he can fathom is that he doesn't know her name.

_She even wore a nametag Rogers_ , Steve thinks to himself, jaw hardening. _A nametag!_

_"Buy some time! Buy some time here people!"_

Time.

Steve sighs as his eye catches the faint shimmer of the tapestry from the café just outside the cave-in of Grand Central Station. He stands before it, the only malleable matter amongst flipped chairs, crushed tables, and wrecked lounge area. He approaches the large window, cracked raw down the middle, and looks inside to find nothing but darkness. He feels strangely tricked—like someone had broken a long lost promise to him and lured him out for nothing.

Steve's shoulders rose and fell with a bitter chuckle. Of course. Of course there's nothing here. What was he thinking? That he'd come back here and—what, _she'd_ just show up? Why? What is the point? He drums his knuckles over the glass as he turns away. He sighs again. Time. Looking around himself, he feels like that's all he has, and yet all he's been stripped of.

*.*.*.*

Steve stands there until night unfurls slowly across New York City, dimming the blue shadows of the caved in buildings and haphazard ruins of shops into a soft, smoother comfort on the eyes. When a brilliant flash of a white causes Steve's iris's to react—he blinks, startled, and notices the distinct ache in his legs. He glances around quickly to find himself alone as he was when he first arrived. There's no old men playing chess. There's no pigeons fighting for bits of bread, no chatter of distant customers drinking coffee at nearby tables, and certainly there's no young waitress staring at him shyly from beyond the shop window.

Steve clears his throat as he cranes his head to take in the remains of the Grand Central Terminal above him. The archangels that protected the golden clock are broken hard shards of ruined craftsmanship. It's well past ten at night.

_Waiting on the big guy?_ The waitress had asked him, her voice vibrant and visceral as the sting from a slap to the face. _Iron Man?_

"No," Steve replies out loud, his voice firm. He pauses and it takes him a few tries to continue. "I…I don't know what I'm waiting for anymore."

_Well, that table's yours as long as you like,_ She had smiled at him, long curling honey-coloured hair resting gently over the orange of her blouse, the sparkle of blush on her cheek, the smooth pink-soft lining of her lips. _Nobody's waiting on it._

Steve's nostrils flare in resentment of himself. He can recall everything she said, even her clothes, but Heaven forbid he ever asked for her name.

_Plus, we've got free wireless,_ She added delightfully, moving on from him, her light blue eyes kind and warm.

_I can't believe I asked 'radio',_ Steve chagrins internally, resetting himself back into neutral. But still. It was almost as if she heard him—and she didn't laugh. But she looked back, her teeth politely resting as she moved—and…Steve doesn't know why that it means so much that she _looked_ back. But he can't stop it. He can't stop the rush of action he feels. He has to do something. He has to find out—about her? About why he's moving back towards the ruin café that gave him nothing but a place to draw and some over-priced coffee to sip?

The air turns moist and heavy around him. Churning the night, he continues to stare at the empty blocks until he senses there's a wetness around him, soaking into his boots. Rain. He sighs as he walks aimlessly to his bike. Well, Steve thinks as he buttons up his jacket. There are two things that haven't changed in 70 years. Rain and God.

The wind from the gush of rain picks up as it pelts off the shiny metal of his motorcycle, crying silver and black on to the ashy swollen streets. A shiver runs through Steve's body causing his fingers to shake over the handle bars, nearly causing him to lose control. The rain pounds him, and even with his enhanced vision, he already knows that he couldn't fight his way back to Tony's. He grips the bars tighter in startling anger.

Maybe he didn't want to go back there anyway.

He turns his bike slowly towards a bent street sign that's pointing back towards an old burrow district of New York, and he takes off for it. Fury had kept him out of his apartment long enough. It's time he paid a visit.


	2. Goodbye, love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve makes a phone call to Peggy. Or so he hopes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge hello to anyone reading this fic! I actually have the WHOLE updated story on Fanfiction.net, under my author name there of "KayMoon24". I'll link it in this author comment section below! Possibly head over there and let me know what you think?
> 
> https://www.fanfiction.net/s/8805807/1/No-Day-But-Today

###  Goodbye, love

When Steve finally is competent of it he finds himself sitting in the hard wood of his desk chair, every inch of him wet and shivering.

He notices his fingers twisting nervously around the cradle of the phone hook. He picks up the receiver and holds it to his ear, letting the dial tone echo into his thoughts until he can hardly stand hearing anymore. He drops it back on the hook. Turns away. He opens the drawer beneath the top layer of the oak desk and closes his eyes as he runs his fingers over the files that contain all the lives of the people he's ever known. He even knows what order they're in. Colonel Chester Phillips. Howard Stark. James "Bucky" Barnes…P—He gasps, his fists curling around the papers.

God.

Now they're reduced to pictures and words that'll never be enough to Steve.

He pulls them out, fingers carefully shifting, straightening through each one as if they're newly laid in his hands and he hasn't read them over hundreds of times before, hasn't practically fallen asleep with them clutched to his chest. It was kind of Nick Fury to scour God knows where to find the local and private information of Steve's past world. Because that's what it is now; a different place, a different universe. He flings the folders across his desk and pitches the bridge of his nose in frustration. Now that he thinks about it, it was probably the only kind thing Nick Fury has ever done for him.

Peggy's picture slides out from her manila folder when the files land and it catches Steve off guard when he moves his hand from his face, pierced by the no-nonsense of her stare; his heart drops, and he can't breathe. His shivering increases tenfold, and the room feels strangely small, closing in—forcing him to stare straight at the phone, less the walls impale him.

It's not the right time—he _knows_ it's not the right time to do this—but…he _needs_ someone. He needs to hear someone. Anyone.

_No,_ the voice deep inside whispers.

No, Steve repeats inside his mind, wrists crumpling the paper.

He needs to hear _her._

Steve clings onto the memory that even now she can sense when he needs direction. When he needs her. He finds that to be enough of a sign. She's waiting for him.

"Okay," Steve huffs, bracing himself, knuckles borne white as he pulls at his short hair. "Okay. I'll do it."

He lingers over the phone before he gently picks it up, slowly, as if he'd turn it around too fast and it'd poison the blood in his veins before he decides its safe enough to rest his head against. He meets her black and white stare again, his mouth dry. "But only for you, Peg." He tells her in a whisper.

Carefully, he dials her number listed off from her file in the cordless phone.

"Hullo?" The harsh crackle of an older gentleman's voice hits Steve like a one-two punch, and for a second, the room spins—a thousand reasons rushing to his mind that overwhelm him— _she's recently passed and he's baring her calls, she's sick and he's taking care of her, she's married and he's—_

"Hullo?" The voice snaps again, this time more distant. His accent is ostentatiously British, his tone clipped. Steve forces himself to speak.

"Hello—sir, I want—I wanted to check and see if Margaret Carter still lived here?"

"Wo't? Margaret? Lad, you got any idea what _time_ it is here?"

_Time._ Steve swallows the word down like a shot of whiskey and it burns inside of his brain and turns as murky as the ashes from the café he had stared at for so long. Time. What does time matter now? Steve almost believes that time doesn't exist anymore. Time. What does anything matter now? It's all so clear to him. He almost wants to laugh, and, amazingly, he responds: "I don't think I know what time means anymore, honestly."

There's a bit of a silence on the other end. Finally, the old voice slowly responds: "Are you drunk, yah idiot?"

Steve finds himself involuntarily grinning, full of spite for himself. "I can't get drunk, sir."

"Son, listen to me. You're obviously not from around here so I'll fill you in. It's three o'clock in the bloody mornin', and frankly I don't care who you are. I'm hanging up. Don't call again."

Peggy's eyes bore into him, and he can nearly taste the ruby of her lipstick on his lips. This snaps Steve to his purpose. "Wait! Sir—I'm sorry. Please wait."

"Don't tell me this is some kind of wonky prank call, boy!"

"No," Steve murmurs back quietly, "No, not at all. It's just…could you answer me a few questions?"

"Didn't you hear me—I _said_ it's…ah, never mind. Sure. Well, Maybe. Depends. Who's this again?"

"Is Peggy still living there—with you?" saying 'With you' nearly kills Steve, but somehow he's managed it. The line crackles and Steve presses his ear harder into the receiver, not missing a second.

"Yeah—n'd she's doing well." The elder man measures out slowly with a careful, suspicious tone.

Steve collect himself for a moment, staring at her picture's eyes, wondering if they're just as beautiful and sparklingly dark as they were back in 1942. "Is…is she happy?"

"Happy?" The voice repeats back irritably. "Sure. Sure she's happy. She smiles and gardens and things. She's pretty content."

Hearing those words brings Steve a cascade of relief—but he's pretty sure that it shouldn't feel like it's bleeding out of him. When the solider doesn't respond the old man bites into the pause:

"This over?"

Steve's throat is pinhole tight, and his ear hurts from how hard he's clutching the phone.

"One more thing," he says lowly. On the other end, the old man seems to fall into a wearily silence. A somber moment of patience passes between them as Steve tries to hold himself together.

"Could you possibly tell her something, you know, from me, for her?" He fumbles hopelessly. He's practiced this since he woke up in the fop-1940's bedroom that S.H.I.E.L.D pulled on him. But suddenly he's using it up, unraveling his thoughts, his feelings, and he always imagined talking to _her_ while doing it. Maybe it's easier this way, but Steve feels himself losing touch with his dignity. Tears form in his eyes, but he hides it in his voice when he asks.

"I would lad, but ya see, the problem being is that I don't rightly know who you are."

Once more, Steve ignores the man's question for identity. It doesn't matter now. It's too late. Steve feels himself falling apart inside—a slight trickle of his existence that kept him sane for the few months he's been awake in 21st century is gone. It's too late. It's always been—too late.

"Please sir, tell her that I'm sorry that I missed our date." Steve says slowly, numbly. "Please tell her that, and I promise you'll never hear my voice again." Steve pulls himself away from the phone, his entire body aching from the stress. It's nearly on the desk now, leaning away from him. Only Steve's super sensitive hearing keeps the conversation stable.

"You promise, huh?" The old gentleman manages something that sounds like a laugh, but could have been a cough. "Alright. I'll tell her. What's your name again, lad?"

"Thank you," Steve whispers, unsure if the man on the other side of the world can hear him. Certainly he'd hear him just as well as any of Steve's other friends from the past.

"Hullo?" The man's voice upturns curiously, and the line crackles. Steve reaches across the sanded gloss over his desk and grabs at the box that has the power to connect him to anyone in the world, and yet he only wants _one_ person, and _that was it._ She wasn't there. Just like he was. Just like he is. He holds his breath in tightly, his fingers slowly feeling its ridges and electrical outlets before he smashes it to the wood floor beneath him. The line goes dead.

The chair under him starts rattling as Steve braces himself to stand—but he can't find his footing, and he stumbles to the closest thing he can find—an armchair with a white sheet over it, flaked with dust from the time he's spent at Stark Tower. He sinks into it, curling up around himself, feeling the very earth trembling beneath him, the dust pushing against every hair on his arms, his body—he closes his eyes tight and takes a deep breath, fists balled into the starch white sterile sheets, the emptiness of his apartment, of his life.

In over 80 years, Steve Rogers allows himself to weep; to _mourn_ once he's wrapped in the dust of his past, the twilight of his future, and the soft, buzzing cry of a dial tone that will never, ever, leave his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge hello to anyone reading this fic! I actually have the WHOLE updated story on Fanfiction.net, under my author name there of "KayMoon24". I'll link it in this author comment section below! Possibly head over there and let me know what you think?
> 
> https://www.fanfiction.net/s/8805807/1/No-Day-But-Today


	3. Meeting Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After his recent fight with a telephone, Steve gets a visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A VERY special thanks to Noctemus for teaching me how to post properly on here! Now I can post all of the rest of this...novel....

Chapter 3: Meeting, again

"Without you, the ground thaws, the rain falls, the grass grows," – "Without You", Mimi,  _RENT_

* * *

"Rogers, I gotta say: I didn't think you  _actually_  slept. Ever." A dark feminine voice lingers into his ears, unmistakable.

"Natasha," Steve mumbles, easing himself up, but she's already there, her dark emerald eyes boring into him—right in his face, in fact. She's kneeling on eyelevel as he lies on his back in the chair. He blinks into the stale metal sunlight that sneaks through his blinds. "How'd you get in here?"

The auburn in her hair seemed to smolder in the morning light, glittering as she lifted her shoulders and pursed her lips in contently. "You really think you can hide from me, Rogers?"

"Nat, you know I'm not hiding anywhere." Steve sniffed, crossing his arms. Natasha smiled quickly at him, trying to reassure, trying to believe him, but she had already given a quick sweep of the apartment while Steve was sleeping and found it practically as forlorn and uninhabited as the room that Steve regularly stayed in at the Tower.

"Of course," Natasha's eyes lowered. She had guessed this was coming for a while now. Steve had become more and more withdrawn, and spending a lot of reported time in the Devastations Sites from most S.H.I.E.L.D reports.  _You're hiding in plain sight._  She noticed the flipped wooden chair, the cracks in the oak of the glossed desk, and a photo of a dark haired woman with a relentless stare that she could admire. She lithely stretched up and casually walked to the desk, fingers sliding over the photo. From the corner of her eye, Steve jumped as if he was stung.

He was at her side in an instant, a large hand overtaking the desk and covering up the photo. She raised a red eyebrow at his wide, almost frightened looking blue eyes. He studied her just as evenly, and her look said it all:  _Got your attention now?_

"Natasha, why are you here?"

"We just wanted to make sure you were okay. It's not like you usually stay out all night, Steve."

_It's not like I go much out all, I get it._  Steve thought to himself. "We?"

She turned to bestow on him a quizzical look. "You know, the rest of the people that you happen to share a giant glowing tower with? I think even Tony looked a little concerned."

"Oh, well if that's the case, I see why S.H.I.E.L.D. sounded the alarms."

"Steve," Natasha paused seriously, her emerald eyes slightly shocked at his tone. "I'm not here because of—"

"I know," Steve broke in, his eyebrows furrowed. His jaw clenched and unclenched itself over and over, trying to calm himself down. "I'm sorry. I just—didn't expect you."

The spy edged out his emotion carefully in her head. She added anger to the room, painted it with stress and frustration and, strangely, she saw that Steve's only phone jack box strained, ripped from its means in the wall.

"Phone trouble?" She tried to reason, her tongue lightly offering the suggestion to hide how much weight she could see it held.

Steve didn't even bother to acknowledge it. "Something like that. Look, I'm sorry if I caused any trouble. I'll head back to Tony's soon."

"If you want." She shot him a considering look. "This is your home too."

Steve glances around himself as if just noticing for the first time that he  _could_ stay here, but he disallows himself to even remotely entertain the thought of it.

"Yeah," He adds slowly. "I don't see Director Fury appreciating that."

"But you would." Natasha cuts to the quick, as she always does, and it suddenly becomes Steve turns to look at her in shock. She shrugs nonchalantly at him. "Barton and I like to get away sometimes. Even away from S.H.I.E.L.D." Her verdant green eyes dig into him. "Why shouldn't you?"

Steve swallows.  _Because I want that…but Captain America —the embodiment of heroics and leadership—can't. How would that look knowing that I want to live as a hermit for rest of my life, only coming out to help save the world. What if the public found out?_

"I guess I'm afraid that if I stayed here. I'd—I'd never leave." There. Close enough to what he wanted to actually say to her.

Natasha's jade eyes catch in the dusty morning light, and she moves fluidly from room to room. There's only about four to his entire apartment—living room, bathroom, bedroom, kitchen. It's small—covered in wood, the smell of shoe polish. All the furniture is slightly cool to the touch, not a scratch on them. She runs her fingers over a bookshelf, catching the titles of  _World War 2, Iraq, Afghanistan, 1950-1970's a brief history of USA events._  She pauses over a dimmed, torn embroider cover of  _I'm Okay, You're okay_ , and finds distaste for the churn of uneasiness that grows in her stomach."Steve, you're a curious man. I don't think any place could hold you for long." She decides to avoid the topic of discussing Self-Help books. "You'll get out there. It just takes time."

"Yeah, so I've been told." Steve says wornly. He sighs out through his nose, before pulling an expression that he  _prays_  is a pleasant expression to his lips. A smile hinges on tightly just for her. "I'm sorry if I caused the gang to worry."

She raises a red eyebrow at him. "A lot may have changed in 70 years Steve, but you're still changing too. You're turning out to be quite the troublemaker when you're not suited up."

Steve flushes at her words, flowing through one ear and out the other as heavy and smoky as Bucky's back in 1942— _Stay out of trouble, you hear me?—_ "Nah. I've never been any good for myself."

Suddenly Natasha is beside him again, leaning against the armchair so that their arms are touching cotton to cotton. "You're good for a lot of people, Steve. Maybe more than you even know." Her eyes fall over the framed picture again—and the young brunette woman's eyes stare at her without fail. She pulls away, her shoes light and airy as a cat's across the floor. "Anyhow, I just wanted to check in. Pepper is dying to get out of the Tower, so we're heading around the city today." She meets Steve eyes again when her hand meets the doorknob.

"I know," Steve shifts where he stands. "I'll call you later, Nat."

"That wasn't what I was going to say." Natasha called lightly, half way out the frame of his door.

Steve chuckles faintly at her tone, bewildered that for one moment he thought he knew what Black Widow had planned next. "Care to enlighten me then?"

"The woman in that frame of yours—the one in your bedroom? She's pretty."

Steve grits his teeth into a smile before grasping up the file and slamming it back into the drawer where it had sat for nearly half a year now. "Don't remind me," He mutters as the door slams.

He pauses, forcing a deep breath through his nose before exhaling. He leans the chair back into place and rips the dusty sheets off the rest of the furniture. Before he knows it, he's at the threshold of his own front door. He laces up his boots, tugs on his still damp jacket from the night before, and flexes his fingers as he sizes up the door.

His hand is on the knob, hands nearly shaking before the striking blue gaze of the old man from long ago opens in the back of his mind, lonely, rueful, depressed—and Steve realizes that he's imagining  _himself._

He grips the cold silver knob hard and throws open his door to face the still empty streets since the attack.  _That is it. Get ahold of yourself, Rogers. You're alive. It's a God blessed miracle you're even breathing, and you can't spend the rest of your life acting like you don't want to be a part of it all._  He tells himself.  _You called her, and you know damn well she's not going to call back. And what if she does? She won't want you now—maybe—maybe she never wanted you. She had her whole life and you missed it. You missed every breath and every smile and every date in a 365 year calendar you could have been with her. So just get to it._

Slowly, a boot is laid out the door, and the New York air rattles the thin window panes of his old apartment building, thick crumbling bricks still defending against the city after so many years, and after the beating of an alien race. He slowly closes the door behind him, rattling the wood. He shoves the desk out of his mind, but he can't let go of her face. So, like the old man in the back of his mind, he closes Peggy's dark longing eyes, and, finally, tries to open his own.

The sun is shimmering against the slightly chilly wind today. He'd have to go back to Stark Tower soon. But he wants to do something different; something that he'd never imagine himself doing without a lot of moxie to pay. And it hits him like a smack on the forehead.

He'd go back to that café—no, not just that café— _any_  café—and he wouldn't wait any longer. He had to find her, that waitress.

He had to.

* * *

_"…The earth turns, the sun burns, but I die, without you."—"Without You", Mimi, RENT_


	4. Trading Masks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in which Steve searches and searches and searches and suddenly.....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much again to Sylvia again! <3

Chapter 4: Trading Masks

**AN:** Gosh guys, thank you SO very much for the follows and favourites. I hope it's going swell. Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays. c:

* * *

_"Will I lose my dignity? Will someone care?"_

* * *

The 33rd café north side of fifth street is a cab drive away from the center of Stark Tower, and the whole time Steve feels the icy buildings wide set eyes digging into him. He puts his back to it however, allowing himself only the faintest of self-conscious twitches from his thumbs as he walks. It takes him less than twenty minutes to decide if she's there or not between cafés—although, he could be lying optimistically to himself. There could be a thousand reasons for her to actually be at one of his dismissed cafés. She's sick, or maybe she's just not on schedule that day. Maybe she quit waitressing all together and fled the city like so many. But Steve presses on without a backwards glance, the doubts dissipating like the moister of his breath on the air.

The throaty roar of his motorcycle raced through downtown, midtown, east, west, and twists across Time Square multiple times. Steve disregards the gentle layering cresting blue ice over the sidewalks, the bright sparkles of Christmas lights strewing across the already glowing behemoth of New York. He stared at them before, trying to prepare himself for the holidays, but it feels so fleeting compared to now.

The frosty morning that he'd forced himself into leaked slowly into the late afternoon chill of lunch time shoppers and soon Steve had to park and go about his search on foot. He had to keep himself from sprinting around the whole massive maze of a city, and pressed his patience walking with the normal pace of New York foot traffic as he studied café to café. Two more went by without any luck. Then a sixth. Soon a seventh—although one did have a young blonde server about it back in 44th street, but Steve knew in an instant she wasn't the woman he was looking for.

He closed his eyes briefly as he walked, keeping perfect pace and timing with the chatter and noise of the cars and people close around him. It could picture her so well he felt he might even be able to draw her sometime, if the nerve finally struck him.

She was slender with a kind face and light blue eyes. Her lips held an unsure, cute smile, and she was probably about 5'4 or so. She looked real nice in her pink blouse, and her nails were clear, no glitter, or paste applied to them. Her makeup was naturally demure, her hair long and golden, held by a few pins tossed into a half-ponytail. He could imagine and recreate—but always, always her name was blurred as it hung from the nametag. That he could never simply make up for himself.

Hours passed as he walked, blurring and fading nearly as fast as Steve's confidence. Eventually he stumbled onto a bench near Central Park and let his head fall into his hands. Even when he was a kid he just tried way too hard for things that weren't meant to be. Sure, sneaking into the army was a stupid death wish, but it was  _his_ stupid death wish, his purpose, his calling.

But that was all gone now. Or at least, it wasn't anything he could be permitted back into. But Steve figures it wouldn't be the same anyhow.

He strained his eyes into the wintery clouded sky and watched the wind stir the brittle branches above him, spinning towards the earth below.

What was calling him now?

Would finding this stranger of a girl really bring all that much into his life besides bitterness and frustration?

* * *

Steve finds himself standing near some damp café outside of China Town, not feeling the numbing push of the wind snaking up his jacket. He's lost count and location now. It's all the same.

* * *

Next he's standing outside a bar, but he turns away, jaded _. You couldn't even pretend be to drunk if you wanted too,_  Steve chides himself.  _You're something awful of a lair, especially to yourself._  
  
He sighs, his feet like led in his boots before he twists away again, letting the depression and delusions of grandeur fuel like a poison into his veins. Time and time again he'd do this to himself.

What can't he just give it up? Why can't he just quit like everyone else? He doesn't have to put on the show now. He doesn't have to be the perilous leader Captain America out of the suit. He's only leading himself into psychiatric help or a slight obsessive compulsive habit.

He hutches up his shoulders and just looks at the ground beneath him, seeing nothing, just letting his feet go where they'd like. A railing soon trails just to the side of his vision and he glances up to find himself outside the patio of a restaurant called  _Salto Della Fede_. He swallows drily, and thinks about the irony of being thirsty from wondering from diner to diner before he stops and just watches the pairs of couples lunching outside.

Tinges of grey from the misty cooling sunshine flaking off into an old woman's hair as she smiles at her date. There's a kid on his cordless phone, free hand intertwining with his girlfriend that Steve wants to snort at. The whole diner is brighter than the lights of the city in festivity—warm sweaters, hands, hearts. Flashes of youth and colour. Steve's revulsion softens looking over them—soon the action is broken up by their waitress retrieving their bill. He starts to turn away but suddenly he can't move.

From the corner of his eye he sees wheat-yellow hair and his heart stops dead. His superb eyesight zeros in—but the woman turns away, her hair twirling behind her.

_Give up?_ A quiet voice in Steve's head asks him.

Steve thinks hard but his eyes can't leave her.  _No. No. No. This…isn't…_

His blue eyes trace across the crowd, desperate for more, but it's no use. He'd have to get in closer. He slows down, turning on his heel as he moves against the flow of shoppers gushing from 49th, nearly knocking down a large woman with six full  _Macy_ shopping bags before he makes it to the outdoor sitting area of the café. He stops, narrowly avoiding more people as he leans himself against the patio's railing, turning his head to just barely glance the girl again.

Her eyes are blue—light blue, and her eyebrows and lipstick is just the same. Her complexion is perhaps a little paler, and she looks more rundown than the last time he had seen her, but then again, everyone had been more carefree before the Battle—but  _Oh God_ , Steve's chest tightens painfully, his heart running wild as he finds himself turned fully around just  _staring_ at her.

Because it's her. Dear Lord, it's  _her._

Steve Rogers ignores the nibbling of doubt in the back of his mind as he forces himself to calmly walk the rest of the rail way like any other normal American male and not bound over the knee high perimeter of the outdoors dining area. The breeze flourishes up the hanging cloth drapery of the café sign as he enters, walking straight for her. But she's moving away quickly, dashing inwards and 'neath the shadow of the doorway—disappearing with empty dishes and teacups.

"Wait!" He spurs his lungs to expand harder, and suddenly he's loping over the ground faster than most short distance Olympic sprinters. "I've been looking for you everywhere." He feels like he's screaming the words, but he's actually just muttering them to himself in fervor—two full tables turn to stare at him.

Steve digs his heels in and discreetly strides into a fast paced walk as he avoids the eyes and he ducks around the patio area of the  _Salto Della Fede_ café. He barely aware of practically anyone else in the lunch time rush as he chooses a wicker seat at random and sits down, knees still humming with anticipation. Discreetly he folds up a menu and chides himself for acting like he honestly has the outrageous nerve to gander at her from table to table. His fingers leave prints on the plastic casing of the listings and the letters jumble around before his eyes.

_I can't believe I'm doing this. This is—illegal, or completely nuts. There's something wrong with me._  A loud voice in Steve's head sets him straight.  _Get up and walk away right now. You're goin' look like some creep—you're going to—_

Steve freezes as the waitress comes near for the first time. Steve turns his head slowly, trying for a smooth sweep at catching her name—his eyes gandering as discreetly over her blouse as he can before she dips the cloth over the small round tables, clearing the dishes and glasses with a satisfying clink. Steve continues to follow her—but she's moving far too quickly that even with his enhanced vision he can barely make out the wobble of one letter at a time as the flimsy pen holds her memory in place in his mind. He's completely captivated for her name—on the other hand, however, the waitress takes consideration out of the corner of her eye, and how she can't seem to escape the explicit stare of a young patron at a table just a way from her. She glances at him quickly—he's young, possibly even handsome—but never the less, her face scrunches in hidden frustration.

Since moving to New York, and since the Battle Of New York, she's gotten use to the unexpected, and the expected—like the other, not-so-young regulars that hang around the café and stare at her friends' chests. She coils her hands hard around the silverware in her aprons pouch, steadying her nerves.  
 _  
_She turns, knowing that regardless she has to serve him. The waitress bites the side of her cheek when she notices that the young man in front of her is _still_ squinting at her chest, and decides to leave it alone and do her job—telling herself to maybe take it as a compliment, but she finds she only wants to laugh at the idea. That makes her smile. She shifts her hair from her shoulder and the tips of her nails make contact with the sharp edge of her nametag the pinned cloth there out of habit as she approaches quickly; she's so ready to get this over with. "Can I… help you?"

Steve reels at her response as if he wasn't aware of just how hard he was staring at her blouse this whole time. "Sorry!" He snaps to attention again, red lining the bridge of his nose. "Yes—I'm sorry. That was…that wasn't very polite of me. I—I was looking for your—ah,"  _name_ "—attention."

A second inches by as her yellow eyebrows rise, and the soldier realises she waiting for more.  _More?_ Steve cringes, sweat forming on the back of his neck. He forces himself to choose the first item off the menu in front of him.

"May I have the—" He pales as he realizes that the word is completely foreign to his tongue. "Shake'a-er-toe?"

Her lips part slightly at him, her blue eyes alertly suspicious. "Is that a question, or do you actually want it?"

Steve nods as if he wasn't shrinking to the size of an ant inside. "Yes. Yes, I'll have that."

"Right," She says carefully, still keeping the pleasantry to her tone. The scratching of her pencil against the yellow paper is loud in Steve's ears. "Would you like a meal to go with that?"

Steve's mind goes blank. "That wasn't a meal?"

Her lips widen into a smile, and she laughs. "No,  _shakerato_ is a specialty drink—you know, coffee. Starbucks kind of quality except it's real, and served in a cocktail glass. I'd recommend it. Ever since that new James Bond film has come out it's been a local favourite."

Steve shifts in his seat, feeling suddenly too out of place. He quickly flips through his recent memory of pop-culture that he's been trying to pick up from Clint, but he draws a complete blank over whoever James Bond is. He sets his teeth into a smile and prays that she doesn't notice how clueless he feels.

"I can only imagine,"  _Literally._ "But, no thank you, I'm fine. I'll just have the drink."

"Okay," She breathes an internal sigh of relief at the strange man before her. "It'll be out in a jiffy."

The off-white of her apron turns as she trails away, but suddenly the young man twitches—and his next few words seem like a knee-jerk reaction, like an invisible person had kicked him from under the table. __  
  
"I'm Steve, ma'am," Steve's mouth turns into a near grin but it feels funny, like it is stuck for some reason, or rather like he's never tried it before. The waitress, only a few steps away, turns back towards him. Steve sticks out his hand for a handshake to which the woman before him seems all the more confused by. Slowly, she reaches out and grasps his large hand in the space between her fingers and awkwardly pulls it downward for a moment before letting go.

_Hm,_  She thinks to herself, lips pursing thoughtfully.  _Maybe he's just wants some company?_ She freezes again. She's seen this happen before.  _Oh. Oh no. Maybe…maybe he's lost someone in the attack._ She'd seen the lost and the desperate linger around the area, chatting up local retailers for the sake of hearing someone else's voice, someone else to acknowledge them. She flexes her smile a bit wider.

She knows that feeling.

She knows what it's like to awake in the dead of night in a cold sweat. To clutch your pillow so hard that you want it to both suffocate and protect you, but you know it can't. Nothing can protect you now—except for the Avengers, maybe. Except for maybe Captain America. She thanked him—she was so grateful in her shock. She was still grateful after. But everything was so different now. People were different. The whole city shook in sudden dependency for something  _greater_ to hold it together. Beth could sense it. But she was just one person, and she had to go on like everyone else. It didn't stop her from listening to the roar of the winds through the hurting city—to grasp hope in crawling to find the remote, but find you can't turn the T.V. on. You're overwhelmed at the silence. Your head spins, but no sickness can make this feeling leave you. You're crying out just like everyone else—and in the morning, you'll put on makeup, or fix up your hair and you'll pretend like your anxiety attack didn't happen.

She blinked, smiled back at Steve.

The attack has left her just as lost as the people she tries to serve. _ **  
**_  
"Beth—just in case the name on my shirt isn't what I hope it is." The waitress reaches up to tug at the thin plate as if she wanted to check herself, but didn't have the nerve to look down. Now it was Rogers chance to return a bemused look. Noticing, the blonde continued: "Last week I accidentally took my friend Ronda's tag—and let me tell you, it was the _weirdest_ feeling to be called by a different name all day long."

Steve chucked softly, glancing down at the small round table before him, and Beth found herself taking just one step closer than she normally did to her usual orders. She had made him laugh—which, frankly, after everything that had been happening to her lately, she was glad to find a piece of herself again. She prided herself in letting her self-deprecating humor make other peoples' day. It certainly made her's. Besides, her shift had been slow today, and most conversation was as stale as the doughnuts inside the shop.

Beth's hand flexed nervously over her pen as she held up the notepad for the gentlemen's order, already feeling as if she'd said too much nonsense, but, as if the universe just wanted to spite her, the curious blue eyes of the man before her humored her further. He asks a question that almost allowed Beth to feel like he was actually interested. "Couldn't you have just traded it back?"

"I could have—but where's the fun in that?" She wipes her hands in the folds of her apron and the drizzles from her wheat-shimmering hair fall in the process. "Besides—I just take orders from strangers all day. What does it matter if my name is right or not? Sometimes it's thrilling. " Her light blue eyes switched to stare into Steve's before dropping themselves back to her notepad, and she feels as if she couldn't have said anything more petty.

_Right,_  Beth regrets internally.  _And this is why you stopped trying to do small talk. Your talk isn't small. It's just stupid. What does this poor man care about any of that? He's probably…probably…_

Steve's mouth twitched briefly. "Is that so?"

"Completely! It's the little things, I guess, that get us through the day here." Beth's pink smile tugged at the side of her mouth. "Just kind of routine."

Steve's fingers fiddle with the edge of the menu before they come to a still over the way she said routine—a little soft and sad. "Routine?"

"Ah—I suppose I mean that it's just something light to look forward too. I mean, it's just one of those things that comes with the job." She flicks the nametag again, her blue eyes joking. "Our own version of trading secret identities."

Steve pauses, his eyes tight on her, wondering.

Internally cringing, Beth brings the conversation to a close before she rushes off to another table.

"Trying to cheer up customers with a smile."

Steve leans forward and shifts the menu into her palm before he decides to smile himself. It's a small smile, one that's kind of twisted and confused, because frankly he's feels so uncomfortable he could leap up and bound the length of fifth avenue before anyone know otherwise, but still he stays. He notices how her eyes widen as he smiles at her, and he wonders for a second if his grin isn't Steve Rogers grin. He closes his lips into a frown, and Beth just continues to eye him timidly before she turns away, rushing to another table.

Finally, when she enters into the café with the rest of her orders, Steve allows himself to rest his head on the edge of the table, grateful that he doesn't have the will to bonk his forehead against it, lest it snap in two. He's already in trouble enough.

* * *

"...Will I wake tomorrow from this nightmare?" - "Will I?", Entire Cast,  _RENT_


	5. Iced Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Steve stumbles through ordering a drink. God, he's so awkward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again Noctemus!

Chapter 5: Iced Coffee?

**AN:**  Thanks again everyone. c:

* * *

"The heart may freeze or it can burn."

* * *

"There ya go," Beth's voice doesn't catch Steve unawares, as he's been listening for strictly her voice for the past seven minutes. The tray in her hand shines waxy and silver, the  _shakerato_ slandering near center, but intact. She reached up artfully and plopped the drink down, not spilling a drop and obviously proud of herself.

Steve studied it carefully, noticing it's off-brown colour. "Shaker-toe, huh?"

" _Shakerato_ ," Beth smiled. "For the most adventurous of coffee lovers." She quipped. She tapped her fingernail along the table lightly. "Or so says the menu."

He wrapped his fingers around the glass, feeling the beads of liquid attack his skin with a fury of frozen, chilly formations.

"Ah—it's  _cold?!_ " He nearly fumbled not to drop the glass. Beth tried not to laugh at his over the top reaction. It was as if he'd never touched anything like it before.

"Well, of course, it's an iced coffee."

Steve stared at her. " _Iced_ coffee? Doesn't that defeat the point of coffee in the first place?"

Beth leaned curiously closer to him, her blue eyes humorous and surprised. "You've never had iced coffee before?"

Steve tried to think fast but the  _iced_ coffee kept spinning his logic away.  _This was really a thing now? What?_  "No, I um, don't really try new things," He chuckled halfheartedly. "I guess that's a bit obvious."

"Well, no day like today, right?" Beth corrected the tilt of the glass. "Maybe you'd like it. You never know."

The ice cubes in the miserable looking coffee clinked together like the snap from the jaws of a beast, but Steve wrapped his fingers around its throat again.  _No day like today, right?_ He told himself unsurely, stealing the phrase from her vocabulary. He took a leisurely sip as Beth turned away for the table closest to Steve's, clearing away a plate. Suddenly, with her not watching, he can't taste what he just ordered.

"Beth, right?" Steve asks his drink.

She turned back, ears perked, already knowing just what to say. "Is something wrong? If you don't like it, I'll be happy to bring you something else."

Steve swallowed, taste buds bombarded this time. Yup. It tasted pretty awful, and  _freezing_ , but he managed through. Bucky's cooking was way worse. He glanced up at her. Back to the drink. Back to her before he found that he was turning into some kinda creep again.

"What's your favourite drink here?" Steve inquired _. Tactful, Original,_ he spat sarcastically at himself.

Beth tried not to smile while she watched her strange patron's brows furrowed as if he had asked her a more philosophical question like  _is the likability of your drink preference in relation to predetermination, or pop culture icon?_  
  
"Hmm," Beth responded without missing a beat. "Probably the plain glass of water. It has a refreshingly clean finish." She smiled at her own joke before she added more seriously. "I'm not honestly the biggest specialty coffee fan, if you want to know the truth."

"Really? That's surprising considering how fast paced this joint is." He thumbed casually to the two full tables that had gawked at him before, thankful to lead her eyesight away from him for a moment.

"Have you been in New York long, Steve? The whole city is brimming with pace." She raised her eyebrows playfully.

Her words caught Steve's deepest nerve to stare at her without feeling like a complete schmuck, but the way she said his name—just his name—in full consideration for  _Steve Rogers_ for just a second. His throat instantly began to dry and he tried another slip of his drink, honestly grateful that he had something more acceptable to put in his mouth, say, beyond his own foot.

From another table a few previous customers called loudly for their refills.

"Right—well, duty calls." Beth allowed. "Lemme know if you need anything else, okay?"

"Thanks," Steve nodded, head like a steel trap. **  
**

* * *

This time she didn't come back for over fifteen minutes and Steve tried not to feel ancy about why. He distracted himself by people watching—although, all the couples only make his nerves tense out more. He tried to drink more from his glass before he felt practically numb inside from the cold; the ice kept smashing into his teeth, smarting his jaw. One of his legs bounced restlessly.  _God, this is such a mess_. He stated to himself.

He slapped at the pockets to his pants wondering for a pen to draw on a napkin with when Beth's voice caused his head to jerk up so quickly that he nearly shook the table. The glass teetered dangerously and they both reached for it at once, clasping hands over the cool glass. The warmth of Steve's hand pressed against her's made the soldier's heart twist so violently that he was the first one to pull back.

Beth tried to smooth over their sudden contact. "Fast reflexes, Steve." Her lips pursed softly. "Say, you weren't a waiter before, were you?"

"A waiter, me? Oh no, believe me, that'd be a sorry sight."  _I did preform a bit though. Which was also an equally sorry sight._

"Well, what do you do?"

Steve could feel his confidence breaking into brittle pieces that lay at the bottom of his stomach.  _Civilian relations are frowned upon_ , Fury's voice had stated. Loud, and very loud.

"I…" Steve glanced at his arms, at his jacket for help, and the muscles there lit up his lie. "I am a physical trainer for boxing leagues—but uh, it's only a part-time deal. I was a soldier once, though."  _There. Not too shabby, Rogers. Normal folks need normal jobs._

Beth's expression rearranged itself from cheerful to pensive and back to inquisitive. Her light blue eyes tightened though, something shadowy lancing through them. "Oh my God, a  _soldier?_ "

Steve's smile turned sheepish. "I just got back from a long leave." He swallowed dryly, trying not to stare at the ice in his drink. Dear Lord, he  _hated_ the cold. "Before you—you asked if I was new to New York, well, actually, I meant to tell you no. I've lived here my whole life. I'm from Brooklyn."

Beth took her time answering, mainly because it was the most she had gotten out of her customer in nearly half an hour. She reached across the table and patted his hand. "Well, it's been an honour to be your waitress, soldier Steve." She picked up his glass and began to walk back towards the café. "And...welcome home."

Steve could feel himself beaming red but he shrugged it off as he watched her disappear. "Home." He whispered sadly. "I wish it were that simple." _  
_

* * *

It continued this way for quite some time that day. Between ten to twenty minute intervals, Beth could walk over and check on Steve—and exchange what conversation they could during those brief visits. Before she left for the seventh time, Steve got the nerve to ask her for a spare pen. Beth handed it over quickly, but scurried away after that, thoughts buzzing that for some odd, ridiculous notion, this man might be taking the long way around and give her his number—but she scolded herself quickly and got lost in the hustle from inside the café.

From between catching her visceral, blonde image from the glass in the café windows, Steve practiced drawing her as best he could—hiding the inked napkins in the front pocket of his jacket when she returned to chat.

Perhaps it was weird; their strange verbal dance of talking tongues and smiling teeth, but it passed the time. Hours stripped away like this until, finally, Steve glanced up from drawing to notice that he was the only one still sitting in the chilling evening air outside. Inside the warm wooden café walls he heard people talking and silverware clinking, but he couldn't bring himself to move inside. He had been waiting for anything before, but now.

Well, now he was waiting for Beth.

* * *

Beth's friend Ronda gave her a glare when she enters through the cafe's back door for her evening shift, already finding Beth wiggling herself into a worn blue jacket with white wool cuffs along the edges, frayed and a little discoloured.

"In a hurry, Princess Buttercup?"

"Ha, ha," Beth's voice was muffled. "It's cold, is all." Finally, she popped her head through the top.

"You really need to get yourself some buttons that aren't stuck together."

"I love you too, Ron."

"Seriously! Girl, it's nearly Christmas! Go  _wild!_  Buy yourself a better jacket. Hell,  _I'll_ do it for you. I'll buy you clothes that aren't from Nebraska."

"Oklahoma?" Beth quirked her lips into a playful scowl at her best friend.

"Wherever the hell you're from." Ronda snapped back, equally kidding. It had been a running joke for two years now that Ronda wasn't found of any place that wasn't the Big Apple. Plus, she was from Queens—with bleached hair, a small nose ring, and an entire tattoo sleeve of different Broadway shows on her left arm. That's how her and Beth met in the first place. Musicals were the ties that bind them. Plus, her living only a block down from Beth's own apartment made for an easy, strong friendship.

Ronda's dark brows contrasted with her white hair as they rose, and her nostrils flaring when she sees Beth tying back on her apron. "Overtime?"

Beth smiled at her faintly. "Just one last table. Tell Max I'll be out of his hair soon."

* * *

Steve leaned back in his chair and stared at the dark evening sapphire sky that was gliding its way over the buildings of New York, probably held up by its skyscrapers. Or punctured by it.

When Beth came out for the final time it takes a while for Steve to realize that she's changed. She has a jacket on now. She has a purse. And now she's no longer flitting at the edge of a table. She's pulled a chair out and is sitting across from him. By the time he's figured all this out, they're deep into a conversation about, of all things, baseball. Her father had gotten her interested in the sport after her older brother had left for college. But, all that time and Steve can't help but glance this way and that, trying not to let his worrisome nature show. Is she really leaving, or he is just causing her trouble?

After a while, Beth notices that her patron's startlingly blue eyes are fighting between keeping polite contact with her own, or staring just into a space just above her shoulder. Beth turns, her blonde hair falling with the movement, out of curiosity.

"What're you staring at?"

"Huh?" Steve perks up; his eyes instantaneously searching her face in vain panic before he edges out awkwardly. "Ah—well, Beth, as much as I enjoy chatting with you, I just happened to notice that you haven't um, left to tend to a table in a while, and I was just worried that I might be keeping you from your job."

"Oh," Relief fills the young woman's tone and Steve tries not to puzzle his expression over it. "Well, I've been off the clock for about an hour now." She smiles a careful smile at him, grading his reaction, and Steve tries to peel the shock off of his face in a timely manner.

"You have?"

"Yeah," Beth reveals her smile a tad bigger at the look on Steve's face. "Is that okay?"

Steve is stunned into silence.

Beth's brilliant blue eyes caress over him for a moment before she smiles again—just a small one that makes Steve wish he could up and vanish into thin air. She shifts the thin handle of her purse from hand to hand. "This might sound completely out of nowhere, but um, I was wondering if you maybe wanted to get some coffee sometime? Like, actual coffee. Not cold."

Steve freezes, heart shoved between the space of his roof of his mouth and his bottom teeth, already blocking all the phrases that are rushing for his brain. Civilian interaction is frowned upon. The war taught him, S.H.I.E.L.D. instates.  _She could get hurt. She could get tangled up in the mess that is your outrageous life. She could get as lost as_ you are _, Rogers._

"You mean like, to go out?" Steve tests nervously. "On a date, rather?"

Beth reddened slightly at his candidacy, highlighting the ruffled nature of her hair from the wind and the lunchtime rush. "I was thinking about seeing that James Bond movie, actually, and well—two's company, right? But only if you'd be interested…" She glanced at him shyly.

Steve's heart pounds at her for two long painful moments before he finally finds himself, and suddenly he's nodding, confirming, his new affirmation of life honestly opening before him, and he finds that he can't hide from it anymore. He would never do this otherwise. Captain America would never do this.

_It's her,_ the voice whispers softly, sending a thrill down his spine.

He smiles.

"Yeah," Steve nods at her, feeling as if the world beneath him has suddenly begun to spin backwards. "I would. I would like that very much."

* * *

_"The pain will ease if I can learn..." "No Day But Today", Mimi, RENT_


	6. New Identity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a new date on his calendar, Steve comes "home" to the Tower to only find he's going to have to hide such amazing news from five other super heroes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again Noctemus!

Chapter 6: New Identity

**AN:**  Thank you all for those of you that are joining us and those that are hanging on. Massive update head. The follows and favourites and reviews make my life.

* * *

_"How do you feel today?_

_What do you mean?_

_How do you feel today?_

_Okay._

_Is that all?_

_Best I've felt all year."_

* * *

" _So…I'll see you at six tomorrow night?"_

Steve smiled softly as he raced along the late night traffic that was leading in him to Stark Tower, eyes chasing the streetlights with a strange hypnotic vigor. He kept replaying their conversation, savoring the words spent between them with a languid, star-like quality. This was some kinda dream, an offhand fear kept whispering in his ear— and he'd wake up with his ear pressed to the radio screen, desperate in anticipation for the latest drama.

_"I've never seen a James Bond film before, so, I'm really excited."_

Her voice murmured through his mind, so much so that he didn't even realize that he nearly ran a red light getting back to Stark's. Once he finally pulled through his daze to stop being a road hazard he casually pulled into the garage. His key wasn't even in the slot as the silver doors flashed open with crippling flourish. Tony stood in the entry way, a smirk lining his lips, one brow cocked in surprise. Steve flushed, as he hated showing Stark much anything that rivaled a positive expression, but his smile was as sticky as glue across his face. He couldn't stamp it out. It was all the super soldier could do but not reach protectively for the small pocket of his jacket, as he had been the whole ride home, worrying the little packet inside full of pen drawings of Beth—and, from the said woman's hand, her telephone number.

"Rogers, well, well, welcome back." Tony dark eyes rolled over him, acute and sharp and equally suspicious of anything that walked into his home lately. A sound clicked from beyond Tony's back teeth. "And here I thought you'd lost your way from the yellow brick road."

"Stark," Steve said pleasantly, ignoring just another of Tony's verbal stabs. He often wondered when Tony would grow bored of  _The Wizard of Oz_. Last week it was the discovery that the board game  _Clue_  was around during Steve's time, although the joking jabs of someone and something or other in some place with some weapon was a bit of a loss on Steve, in all honesty. He never had the luxury of playing with any such a toy.

Tony edged a step back, letting the electric doors slide forward and allowed Steve inside. The living room, spacious and post-modernly round, with a dark leather sofa, and wide over-kill of a television set was on, although Steve once again failed to recognize what film was playing on it. He caught sight of the curve of Clint's shoulders as he sat on the sofa, one arm resting along the back of it, so close but yet so far out of reach from the red glinting curl of Natasha's hair. Steve thought of saying a quiet 'hello' as he moved through but then considered otherwise. Knowing Natasha's quickness, Steve's action of saying a simple greeting would bring awares to Clint's (although frequently denied) intentions.

"Friend Steve! You are a sight for the eyes that are unpleasantly sore!" Thor's voice boomed from the kitchen, just across the way of the door, and Steve found himself chuckling at the demi-god's term of phrase.

Tony shook his head in the aformention's direction, exasperated. "Close. He was _so_  close."

Steve nodded at Thor's greeting, waywardly making his course around Tony, barreling straight for his room as quietly as he could before a low voice called to him.

"Steve, I feel it's been a while. Good to see you."

Doctor Banner's cool dark eyes met his dead-on, and Steve felt himself steeling to the floor, finding himself in just too close of the proximity of 'rude' now to honestly turn his back to the doc. Bruce was seated at Tony's bar, connected halfway to the kitchen outlet, laptop opened whirling with attention needy pictures and doo-dads that were politely ignored just as well from the scientist.

"Doc," Steve greeted minimally, his eyes light. "How are things?"

"Quiet, actually," Bruce's dark features never removed themselves beyond that discreet wall of disassociation, but there was an air of interest in the way he raised his eyebrows at Steve. "Or so they were. You were missed."

Steve coughed his disbelieving laughter away, but smiled as he felt he should. Was it good that his presence outside of uniform was missed? "So I've heard." Steve's eyes fled away from Bruce's, anxious to just get to his room like some troublemaking kid. "Look—I'm gonna go wash up, so I'll be right out soon."

Bruce's lips set themselves coolly again. "Sure. We'll be here. Thor's cooking."

"Cooking?" Steve padded into the shadow of the hall, but surprisingly, it wasn't a sarcastic comment from Tony or even Thor that explained the rest. Pepper Potts emerged just as Steve entered, and it made him turn ever so slightly, alarmed that he was too muddle minded that he missed her at all.

"Steve! I'm glad you're here!" Her red hair was pulled back tight in a ponytail, and her freckles danced with surprise as she looked the soldier over. "I suppose this is really happening now, isn't it?"

"Ah," Steve felt his gaze shifting back and forth along the living room and kitchen. "…am I missing something?"

Pepper's expression treaded somewhere between saccharine cheer and hectic anxiety, although a crease between her brows made her blue eyes seem tight. "Just thought it'd be an interesting change of pace." She gave a wide shrug of her petite shoulders as if to confirm it. "And who knows, you're home in time—maybe it's meant to be."

"Meant to be," Steve repeated, eyebrows rising.  _Oh boy._

Pepper's hand fluttered to Steve's shoulder, as if she herself needed support for what she was about to reveal. "We're having dinner. All of us."

Steve felt like his escape route had been twisted into the gutter, his means of hiding cut off completely. It would be far too out of character for him to say no now. It would draw far too much attention, and Steve could only guess that Natasha's offhanded comments about the rest of the gang wondering where he'd flown off to made Steve feel strangely… protective.

And with the way that Miss Potts was gleaming at him—that made Steve curious as well. That, or Tony had seriously missed a step in his and Pepper's consistently loud and wild relationship woes—and to see Tony's wise guy ways land him in the proverbial dog house might be too good to be true.

It wasn't that they all ate a meal together frequently. In fact, it was often just in coincidental pairs of whoever was in the kitchen at the time happening to want to eat at the same moment another Avenger was going to cook. Tonight, however, it was Thor's famously delicious spaghetti—as the god had taken a quick liking to an interesting mimicry of his gal, Jane Foster. When she's was cooking, so would he. When she'd read Tolstoy, he would attempt Dr. Seuss. Unsurprisingly, it wasn't long before Thor surpassed Jane in both manners of skill. The God of Thunder was like a sponge of long-blond hair with a relentless soakage for knowledge.

Steve slipped into the wash room to rinse off his face. He took note of his not-so-handsome stubble that was slandering just under his jaw, and the moist layers of wool that stuck to his body. He figured that he didn't have time to shower, so he just traded in for some ritzy cologne that Tony had been forcing on all the guys, and a button up shirt that Pepper once said looked, as she put it: "classy" on him. He found himself chuckling at his own internal dialogue, and his felicity filled expression caught him off guard in the floor-to-door mirror of his room.

Lord, it couldn't have been  _that_  long since he saw himself feeling happy inside and out…was it?

Steve shook his head as he continued to fix himself up. The wind had mussed up his hair—and the damp evening humidity wasn't much of help in that department. He axed using any type of mousse, settling to just enjoy being dry. He usually took pride in looking smart when he could, but he found himself scrutinizing every detail of his look like he'd just stolen someone else's identity. Everything he tried was either too much, or too little.

Well, what the heck was he so nervous for, anyway? Steve carefully eyed his jacket from the way he laid it across his bed as if the papers themselves were calling out to him. Padding over he gently unfolded the papers and peer at them individually—and soon found that he didn't want to honestly risk losing them somehow in the bare depths of his bedroom. He decided to take a secret personal challenge to just keep the evidence of his change with him through the night. Just in case he really started to act some loon, at least he'd still know it was for a real purpose. He snuck the papers carefully into the pocket of his shirt, traded his boots for a soften black shoe before he headed back to the living room.

Apron tied neatly around his tall, broad frame, Thor stood beaming at his creation piled along the crystal plates seated at Tony's dining room table. As much as Steve wanted to disappear, he had to admit that the spicy aroma of Thor's cooking sounded pretty darn delicious. Steve also figured that he probably hadn't eaten properly in…well…when did he eat last?

Steve felt himself getting flustered and the dinner experience hadn't even started yet. He sat down politely at the table and folded his hands, trying not to irk on his distorted reflection in the shine of the iridescent wine glass before him.  _You, my friend, are a complete wreck._  He concluded with a familiar feeling of self-loathing.  _There's no way they're not going to notice._

He needed to get a grip. Make a story or something—it was apparent that he didn't want to share his—his  _date_  with the rest of his team right now. But even that made Steve's stomach clench tight. Tight with the fear of what his team would think. Tight about what would happen if they would tell Director Fury.

Clint was the first to join Steve to his left, while Tony made it a point to sit across from Steve directly with Pepper at his side. Natasha claimed Steve's right. Thor refused to sit until he was certainly no one would be getting up for more ice, or napkins or something. It was strange, once again, to notice how interested Thor was in the tiniest details of things for a man that strutted about in transdimentaional metals. He had each of the Avengers take just one bite before he demanded critique. This time he used some kind of Midwestern spice.

Needless to say, everyone was extremely impressed—and Tony's voice command for Jarvis to have pizza delivered pronto was forgotten.

Now came the hard part. Conversation.

Hungrier than he thought, Steve decided to play his role by contently eating all he wanted. The second his mouth was not full was a second the table could literally turn on him. Steve quietly bided his dinner as casual conversation of daily actives followed between the pairs: Thor cleaned Mjölnir, Pep and Nat bought some type of new dresses that were headlined in Britain last week, and Tony skipped his Press meeting for the fourth time.

"You know Tony, you might want to step out into the outside world once in a while," Clint added with a hint of restlessness. "The news is starting to talk about you."

"My life  _is_ the news, Clint—it makes no difference if I'm actually doing something productive or if I'm reading  _Time magazine_  in the bathroom. I'm taking a break from it all." His dark eyes flashed around the table flippantly. "But I understand if Sparky, you and Miss Bug are bored."

"I am never bored—however, I would suggest that we continue our training experience." Thor broke in.

"Training?" Tony nearly sputtered out his vodka. "No—I don't like the sound of that at all. How about we just make challenges?" He paused for a moment. "Yeah. Yeah, I like that. There, see, that sounds better already."

"Challenges?" Natasha's red eyebrow rose, and Steve found himself nearly conflicted for not allowing himself to ask as well.

Thor and Clint exchanged a look. "You'll see."

Natasha's mouth curled fully. "I suppose I will."

The sound of Pepper putting down her wine was surprisingly catching in Steve's ears—and when he reacted to turn towards it he found himself in the spotlight of her eyes.

"You've been pretty quiet, Steve," her voice was as kind as ever as she condemned Steve to speak. "Everything okay?"

Steve felt his stomach twist once again—a queer sickness spread across his body. He drained his own wine glass fast—forever wishing that  _just this one time_  he'd feel the alcohol—but alas it went down dry and as flat as water. And that gave Steve an idea. "Mm-yeah. Thanks, I just—I need more water."

He politely stood and made for the kitchen himself, easily picking out his favourite mug in the process. Lightly chipped, and not at all proper for Tony's chinaware. From the short distance away, Steve heard Tony protest on-ward:

"—And I want to be included in whatever shenanigan challenges you two are up to," Tony added, running over his girlfriend's side conversion. "I demand to be a part of a tower of shenanigans. Especially one I own."

Pepper's pretty face seemed to darken for a half a heartbeat as her neck snapped towards Tony. "Tony—I was talking?"

His dark eyes danced a bit, knowing for one instance that he didn't miss a beat— When Steve return sit back down he could all but feel the steeled aggravation in Tony's eyes—and, it was the weariest of feelings, but it was like Tony understood, somehow, some  _deep_ unfathomable place of empathy that Steve didn't want to be pressured—but still he continued: "And if this involves your new bow, Clint I need too—ow," Tony's voice ended in a quiet intake of pain. Slowly, he backed his near black eyes onto Steve without a hint of remorse.

"—I'm sorry, Pep's got a point. Where have you been lately, Rogers? Painting the town red, white and blue?" Tony pursued Steve's mysterious disappearance with a strained interest. Bruce took notice of Pepper's elbow knocking into Tony's side from his view of the table once or twice.

The second Steve felt all of the team's eyes on him he had difficulty swallowing his newest fork full of noodles. He coughed haphazardly, grasping out for a napkin and managed to knock over Natasha's wine and his own mug of water in the process. Tony chuckled into his bite as the spy and the soldier quickly began to clean up the mess.

"I—um, you know, just visited my old apartment." Steve reached out quick for a small white lie, and when his fingers touched the cool liquid, he knew he had it. "There's some water damage from the attic, and so I've just been trying to air it out."

Tony rolled his eyes showningly, as if he could only imagine for the tiniest of all possible seconds that Steve Rogers was up to  _anything_  particularly interesting and wasn't just  _boring_  as all hell. Thor inquired about the rest of the living establishment, as well as Clint's interest in any type of old memorabilia about the 40's the Steve might have hidden there, but Natasha's green eyes just stayed to Rogers that whole time with a clandestine amusement. Steve scratched at his throat; her body language integration that he all but feared getting the better of him.

"Tony mentioned a new bow?" Steve kept the harshness out of his voice for a topic change, tired all of the scrutinization.

"Hell yeah. Tony made me a new kind of arrow," Clint added smoothly, a smile flashing to his stern face. "This time it magnetizes with the neurons in the air to create a molten explosion."

Steve's blue eyes widened, understanding Clinton's tumbling of words only vaguely—but explosion seems to aid his context-clue'd response. "Really? That's intense."

"You bet it is—this time it's going to—"

Suddenly, Steve's mobile telephone began to ring.

All eyes leaped instantly to the blonde's equally shocked face, and Steve felt the colour drain from every inch of his body only to pool over his cheekbones.

"Is someone…calling you?" Tony questioned slowly, his voice heavy with delighted confusion.

"It's—it's not mine? I..I don't think," Steve stated artfully, trying to make of show of padding at his shirt, but it was obvious that the sound was ringing from his jean pocket with aggravated cries to be answered.

The other members glanced around at each other curiously. This was the first time Steve had gotten a call that wasn't from one of them. Bruce's eyes seemed to be the most intent, save for the fact that he hid it well but taking a sip from his glass. Steve could feel his heart sinking stone heavy as fast as it was flying light and making him feel light headed. He scrambled for his stupid mobile phone and jammed a few buttons—one of them made the ringing stop.

"Who requires you attention that is not seated here, Steven?" Thor wondered innocently.

"I—I don't know." Steve made a show of staring hard at the blacken screen, as if he could read a number to them. "Don't these things sometimes get misdials? I'm sure it was that."

"Huh," Tony snorted loudly, "for a second I swear I thought you were about to have a heart attack. Calm down, man. Jesus. It's just a phone. Or do you not use it, like, at all?"

"I bet he knows how to use it better than he did a few months ago. Isn't that right Steve?" Bruce came to the soldier's rescue as he usually did when it came to Tony's technology bombardments.

"Really?" Tony's smile gave away his disbelief, as much as he slightly respected Banner's friendly attempts to help Steve out. But God, it was just too funny to watch the man flounder. "Let me see your call list. I bet, beyond this call, there's no one else."

_There's no one else_ , Tony's words hit Steve harder than he would've ever thought, and his knuckles closed tight over his phone, an uproar firing off that he swallowed down less he made a scene.

"No. I don't want you looking at my phone, alright?" Steve kept his voice steady, but he already knew he looked visibly shaken. From across the table, Doctor Banner's eyebrows furrowed worriedly at him.

Tony wasn't so receptive. He blinked rapidly, as if he'd been struck. "Well then—touchy tonight, aren't we, Rogers? Fine. But I know that you're completely lost when it comes to that phone.

Steve's eyes narrowed. His head was aching at every bit of mock Tony was throwing—and it was all just for kicks—something that Tony took for granted that he could just do—and it wouldn't matter—because it was true—but—but— _he has no idea how hard I'm trying_ , Steve's teeth ground together. _He has no idea what plans I have. I'm not just some…some thing you can misplace. Some thing you can control._  
  
"Why don't you just keep your big mouth shut about what you don't know, Tony." Steve edged out slowly.

Tony's dark eyes seemed to light at Steve's tug. Hook, line and sinker—Tony had already won by just getting this kind of reaction out of Rogers. About time, considering that the man had been a damn zombie since a few months after the attack happened. Tony felt that in a way it was good that he could get Steve to shout—sort've in the way that he was teaching Bruce that he could have friends outside of his dividends. But to get him this upset over a phone call?

Tony's eyes gleamed at the concept of some untold possibly that…lame, stuffy Rogers was…hiding something, perhaps?

"What  _I_  don't know? You got something you want to explain to the rest of the class, then?"

Again, the volley-ball motion of the rest of the Avengers eyes settled post court for Steve's turn to pitch.

"Tony—" Pepper began hotly, but sparingly it was the quiet Doctor Banner that continued her statement.

"—Steve, you don't have to explain anything. I'm sure that whatever it is, it's important enough that we need to respect it's privacy." Bruce's voice lowered briefly, his eyes tight on his scarcely touched plate. "I know I miss the days when I could even own a cellphone without it being monitored."

Tony took a deep breath, trying to reel in his jab-gone-too-far. He seriously needed some kind of sign for when he did things like this. Christ. "All right, all right—I'm sorry for harmlessly suggesting that some ghost from Steve's past was a-calling for a good time. Can we all just chill?"

_Ghost. Ghost. Ghost._  
  
That was it. Steve didn't have to sit here and take this. Apology or no, Steve stood up so quickly that the entire table rattled from the force of his hands. All eyes again, and this time Steve was ready.

"I don't feel well. Please excuse me."

When Steve turned to leave, something pulled him to at least thank Doctor Banner for his help against Tony—but the look that the doctor wore on his face forced Steve to nearly halt in his tracks. Bruce's deep chestnut brown eyes looked wide and shocked, his mouth set into a natural line, although his forehead beaded sweat. He sighed through his nose before he met Steve's own blue eyes for a just a second—and Steve felt himself being hit with a wave of contorted fear and sadness that leaked into his own skull and tumbled down his spine with a sinking feeling.

Startled himself, Steve corrected his path towards his room and pushed on towards it without a word otherwise. The table remained silent as far as Steve could tell through the roar of blood in his ears, holding in his anger at Tony for one more day. His head still reeled.

He entered into the bathroom for a while, not really doing much except to stare at himself in the mirror, knuckles frozen over the edge of the cabinet, until he could trust his need to not break something. He popped open the medicine cabinet and decide to take a painkiller for his headache, knowing that it'd have about as much of an effect as a picture of oxygen does to a drowning man.

Finally, he decided to get over himself. He had done so much in so little time. He had called Peggy, for God's sake. And now…now he had a date…a  _date_  of all unbelievable things. Him. The reclusive Steve Rogers. He took a deep breath and tried to focus merely on that. He couldn't let Tony ruin so much achievement in one night. This was big.

This. This was…anything.

Everything.

He took a shower, deciding further that he'd just do his best to wash himself to any bad feelings of the night. He was absently slipping into his room, clad in his pyjama trousers and his old grey army cotton shirt, when a shadow appeared to his right.

Tony caught him at the door, the dark cashmere of his jet-black sweater melting the genius into the darkness, hair, eyes, and all. "I'm going to find out what you're hiding in there, Cap."

Steve's blue eyes skewered him with a cold glare. "Maybe it's none of your business, Stark. You ever think about that? When things don't involve _you?"_

"Oh, but this does," Tony nodded firmly, doubtless in his deduction. "Somehow, I know this does." He leaned in close, his dark curls restless along his face. "And you're bad at keeping secrets, Rogers. If I don't find out, Fury will soon enough."

Something inside of Steve's heart clenched tight, shaking at his wrists; it all returned again in a flash—the blood roared, and he wanted to hit something so  _badly_. His heart pumped furiously—each sound like a single phrase:  _ruin, ruin, ruin.  
_  
"Are you threatening my rights to have a life outside of your home, Tony?"

_Don't, don't, don't_

"I'm not threatening anything Rogers. I'm warning you."

Steve's brows furrowed at the sheer weight of that word at it crushed down upon him. "Warning?"

Tony's eyes seemed to absorb the shadows in the hall, sucking in all the light and positivity of Steve's day with it.

_Don't ruin this for me_ , Steve's heart squeezed out.

"You might as well just tell us now, Steve. Because S.H.I.E.L.D. fucks up everything. They're not good at their jobs—we all have firsthand experience with that. You think I'm paranoid here, Rogers? Is that it? Is that what Clint was getting at when he mention the news? Well, you have no  _idea_  about Fury. So tell me: Is it really  _that_  big of a deal, whatever the hell this is?"

"Well I'm sorry that I haven't stuck around to have your lil' ceiling robot poke and stick me to the walls like some fossilized bug. I'm not one of your controlled variables."

"Ooh, variable." Tony whispered sarcastically. "Big word, old man. Learn that from a dictionary?"

Steve's jaw clenched hard as he stared at Tony—watching how the billionaire's eyes became someone's else's—first brown, soft and cool— _P_ —and then hard, glistening with sorrowful echoes of spite, defeat, framed by glasses—Banner's. Tony kept his gaze just as harsh, but he flared his nostrils in contempt at Steve's silence and spoke as if he had just read the soldier's mind—which sometimes made Steve wonder if Tony really could:

"Yeah. I saw Bruce's look too. I don't know either. But Rogers, I'm not trying to be a tool here," Steve narrowed his eyes and Tony sped up his words, " _Seriously._  I just want you know that, whatever it is you're doing, it's going to affect us. It's called the ripple effect. Look it up in that dictionary of yours, although it's probably marginally out dated."

Steve's teeth ground against each other but his mouth stayed still. Tony stepped back lithely and pushed his way back down the hall, as if nothing had happened. He was already shouting for Clint to hand him the remote or he'd just use Jarvis to command it with only his voice. Apparently dinner had concluded without him.

Steve padded into his bedroom and shut the door, locking it closed with a scanning of his palm print. He twisted off his shoes, seating them neatly at his door mat before he looked around. A single person bed with black sheets and two off-white pillows lining it stood in the north corner. A wide closet to the west, and stain-less metal desk to the east. All in all, his room was depressingly bare. He sighed as he sat down onto the soft mattress—when he remembered the pocket. Slowly, his traced his thumb long the button up's thin, downy inside, and took a breath—willing himself to drop his upset, his worries. He reached into the pocket and pulled out the napkins.

Slightly crumpled in his hand were many tiny hand etched images of Beth—her blonde hair across her face, or the smile that she always kept when she greeted new customers. He leaned the images across one side of the bed as he sprawled out along it, blindly finishing out his cellphone—the little demon that had caused this whole night to come toppin' down. When he finds it, he gave it a little shake like a bad puppy (as if that could only solve the real problem), and flips it on so that the screen lit up the darkness of his bedroom all within a tiny square cube. He tried not to shudder at its likeness to the Tesseract.

Using his left hand, he swiftly held up the scribbles of Beth's phone number, and closed his eyes tight, preparing himself. If it was her number, he'd have to call her tomorrow. He couldn't chicken out. He couldn't just let it all be her moves. She had put him at a near checkmate.

Slowly, Steve compared the numbers, his breathing swallowing.

They didn't match.

All the air in Steve's lungs seemed to escape at once as he sighed deeply—but whether he was sighing from relief or disappointment, he couldn't say. He toggles some of the icons of his phone around—something that looks like a little white envelope, something else that looks like a tiny globe, but it all just leads him to dead ends of confusion. He stared at the number that had called him, a thumbnail carefully expanding each number to his eye. It made no difference. He had no idea who had called him.

Rolling over towards his desk, Steve sat his phone face down, and waited hopefully for the light to turn off by itself. One time it didn't and he had to go ask Bruce how to make it stop like some dumb idiot that just wanted chuck it out the window so he could sleep decently.

Nextly came about what to do with the rest of the Beth's napkins. Keeping Tony's warnings at a distance, Steve slowly hid the images in the side of his closet, beneath three older shoe boxes and shiny battered tins of shoe polish that reflected the light back at him with dim silver smiles. Old friends just waiting in the dark to be released to a better purpose. He gently placed the drawings inside, being careful to keep his eyesight just out of frame from his older drawings—of Peggy, or Bucky, or his own mother. He didn't even want to see that circus monkey he once drew during a miserably rainy day after he acted "Captain America", before he became  _Captain America._

He backed out of the closet quickly after that, feeling like the extra white t-shirts and older pants were ancient hands gripping onto his skin, making him feel overheated and claustrophobic. He hit the edge of his bed once more. Inside of his hand, he still held Beth's number.

He held it up to the false metal moonlight that tilted itself through Rogers' wide window, dripping along the paper with bright colours of golds, oranges, greens, reds—it reminded him of a fireworks show he had gotten to see as a boy, sitting on his old man's shoulders—fingers reaching into the midnight sky trying to touch the color of infinity—explosions of reds, sprinkles of blues, blasts of white and patches of green, he pretended to play with it all in his fingertips—feel the iris of God as he stared down at his children—the colours swirled along the paper, tracing and skirting and flirting with the numbers of the waitress's phone number along the page. Steve stared at that little sliver of paper for hours and hours, before slowly a small smile came to his lips once again.

For once, there was something in his room that felt wholly personal. And staring at now, his own self-made secret, Steve Rogers buried Tony's warning in the back of his mind, and became lost of his daydreams for tomorrow, too excited about finally feeling alive outside of being a hero to worry about the consequence that a harmless date with a civilian girl could ever bring to his team.

* * *

_" _Then why choose fear?" - "Life Support"- Paul, Gordon, RENT__


	7. The First Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title says it all. Oh boy.

Chapter 7: The First Date

**AN:**  So what took me so long? A really wonderful flippin'  _DATE_ , THAT'S WHAT TOOK ME SO LONG. It's full of the cute, the feels, the fears, and damn, do I spoil you guys with accurate research that no one cares about. Okay. I promise I broke it up into a few parts so it's easier on your guys. Although I hope you don't mind some awkward cut offs. Enjoy. C: PREPARE YOUR EYEBALLS. (new date chapter released every other day or so.)

Incase anyone wants to get a picture of what Steve's wearing during his date, it's this: http (semicolon)the(space)art(space)of(space)manliness / 2013/02/21/how-to-layer-clothing-men/

Scroll down till you see a guy with a red sweater, grey pants, you'll know what I'm talkin' about! c;

* * *

She said, 'would you light my candle' and she put on a pout, and she wanted you to take her out tonight?

* * *

Cream orange sunlight wavered in through the sleek wide window of Steve's bedroom the following morning with refreshing ease. Shaking up the shadows, the light highlighted the gentle layer of dust that settled over the mahogany dresser, coat rack, and the young man himself. The sweept of the room told a simple story of anxiousness: sheet twisted, comforter tossed about like a tiny toy ship made of feathers, leaning to and fo across the ocean of sleeplessness. Steve's bright blue eyes stared up at his ceiling, watching the movement of the clouds peel across the off-silver of his bedroom walls. He didn't need to look at his clock to know what time it was now. It didn't matter what time it was. He had been awake long before his alarm was set to go off, and now he just needed the final push to move.

Slowly, he pushed himself into a sitting potion, unhooking a leg that was being clung to by the neediness of a bed that wished it had a better companion to allow itself have purpose. A soft shuffle of pressed fiber against Steve's chest forced the soldier's hand to prod around in his t-shirt for the source—and, a little worse for ware, he had Beth's number once again in his hand. He shifted the thin draping yellow strands away from the side of his face that he'd curled against during the night to found himself wearing a smile. He thumbed at it cheekily, wondering if he could just play it cool for few seconds before he had to remind even himself what a complete square he was. But Gosh, this girl was on his mind for weeks, and he might as well sow the seed now that if he was seriously  _this_  smitten by her, he'd have to keep it in serious check.

Carefully Steve padded his way softly along the echoing hall walls of Stark Tower, slowing to a stop to occasionally listen to the complete quietness of Tony's home. It was surreal that in a mansion made of nano-bits and robotic controls and, well, super-humans—that quietness could still persist; that it could still perturb Steve's ears into the idea that this easy misty New York dawn have been the same quiet Steve heard in 1928, when he was six and he was prowling around with his small childhood apartment home, waiting for his father's shadow to march off into the factory field, whistling "A Kiss in the Morning Early".

The blond eagerly fetched his chipped mug from the expensive looking dish washer with a strange green eye, and decided to wash it by hand. It wasn't that he didn't think it worked properly, but sometimes technology moved just a tad too slow for what he could easily do himself. Soon, Steve found himself repeating the memory of his father with a rendition of "A Kiss in The Morning Early" as he half sang, half whispered quietly to himself in the kitchen. It was eerie, but as much as preforming "Captain America" scarred his ability to publically sing, (or, God strike him down if he tried to  _act_  his sorry-butt through anything again) he still picked up a knack for music.

It was when Steve was setting up the silver coffee maker, which purred more than it seemed to produce anything, that a loud groan entered through the kitchen hatch and through the living room, leading to Tony's lab. Steve's eyes flickered faintly across the room, keeping his nerves steady in case this was one of those troublesome times when it was his super hearing letting him in on activities that he'd rather not know about—before a practically sleep-drunk Tony bumbled into the kitchen.

Although he smeared a hand across his eyes to protect himself from the light, sun, smell of coffee, and the soldier's image himself, the only thing Tony forgot was to cover his ears.

"Oh God, you've t'be fuckin' kiddin' me," Tony complained loudly, blindly making his way to towards the island table of the kitchen.

Steve politely stopped his cheerful song, embarrassed to be heard as much as he wished he could torment Tony more with sound. He played it off by steeling his gaze across the cold tiles of the kitchen, looking smug as he could possibly muster, coffee held to his lips in a smile. As much as he worried about everyone, there was a glimmer of satisfaction when Tony was in mundane distress that Steve himself knew so very well. It was nice to know that maybe there was a bit of natural justice in the world, and not everything came so easily to the Sliver-Spoon Smart mouth.

"Late night?" Steve offered, using one leg to pull out a chair for the childlike billionaire with knots paraded around in his coils of black hair.

Tony instantly sat down, his back towards Steve, and promptly laid his head against the table, cheek nestled against the heated surface that had been warmed by the morning's glory. There was a soft mutter that might've been an answer, but most likely was just a swear. Steve rolled his eyes, extremely aware of how he still carried a match of anger that could light itself into a torch of bitterness any second at Stark.

But not today. Not this morning.

Steve finished his coffee, making a point to smack the bottom of the mug down across the area of the table, shaking its baring. Tony didn't move, but his dark blood-shot eyes slowly moved to Steve with a look of complete exerted disbelief.

"'ow do' 'ou do this?" Tony's mouth sagged against the table, and Steve shrugged, as if that answered anything.

"You get used to it," Steve continued to play along: "How do you stay up so…early?"

Tony sucked in a breath and raised his head weakly over the table, eyes fully contemplative of the table's nonexistent pattern. "You get insomnia," Tony jested.

"That's when you don't sleep well, right?"

"That's when you don't sleep  _ever._ "

"Well isn't that an inconvenience for you," Steve pushed back his chair, clearly uninterested in Tony's woes.

"Not exactly," Tony brushed off Steve's attempt at early mudslinging. "but then again, you'd know all about how to sleep for a good long time, don't you Capcicle?" Tony paused as he waited for the reel to reel of derision that would slide across Steve's face. "Care to share a secret or three?"

Steve willed his face to stay completely natural as he challenged Tony's dark haggard inspection. No, he could do better than that. In fact, he smiled at Tony, strongly. Perhaps a bit too strongly, as the billionaire's eyes widen ever so slightly in surprise. "Actually ever since the Super Soldier Serum, I've found I only need about four hours tops. No real mystery to it."

Steve quickly dropped his mug back into the washer. In truth, there really was a mystery about the incredible things the Serum had done to his body—to survive in ice, to not getting drunk, fantastic strength, stamina—Steve thought it was pity that he'd have to sleep at all. But even still, deep in that darkness of his bedroom, he hated the idea of it. Sure, he'd have all the power he wanted while conscious—but even he was powerless against his subconscious. And Steve never dreamed. He only had nightmares of bleeding men and his body slowly turning numb. He twisted the smooth knob of the sink for warm water drip across his knuckles.

"Heh," Tony huffed as he pushed himself back onto his feet. "Ya know, you're on to something, Cap. That isn't the real mystery around here, is it?" Tony's dark eyes met Steve's for a split second, and Steve could feel himself being analyze down to his pores.

Steve stayed quiet, suddenly taking a great interest in the climbing temperature that had gone from a pleasant warmth to scalding hot across his skin. "Still not gonna talk, huh?" Tony coaxed with a raised eyebrow. " _Seriously?_ "

Steve stayed collected as steam shuddered across his now boiling fingers, thankful for when the black haired scientist gave up and grumpily made for the cool dark shadows of the hallway.

"Whatever. Too tired to think, let alone give a shit. Enjoy your God damned bright ass-sunshine as you prance around Oz to ask the Wizard where the milk man went. Jesus Christ."

And with Tony's growling soon gone, Steve's enjoyment about his day grew.

* * *

Of course, there wasn't a real clock to tell Steve the actual time in Tony's manor of glamorous guile. A part of Steve was grateful that his black leather wrist watch had purpose again. The other part obsessed; there were no walls, on places of escape from the time leading to Steve's departure. If he wanted to know if a minute had passed since he strolled around the living room, he could just glance at his left hand. And this continued to be quite a problem for the rest of the seemly hundreds of hours he had to wait to get outside once again.

Sure, he was excited—but his excitement was coming off of the soldier in strange ways. For one, he was suddenly ungodly confused by all of his clothing. He fought with brown or grey slacks, wondering if it was updated enough, or if it smelled of mildew or whatever it was that happened to old clothing. Boots were suddenly too hard, and plain Saddle leather shoes too artsy. He didn't even bother with dress boots.

He switched between something new and stylish called "layering" that he found when he was desperate enough to scrounge around Tony's ritzy magazine collection from a printing called  _Esquire._  He worried with his hair in the bathroom, brushed his teeth more times than a person ever should without realizing that he had only had just coffee a few hours ago, and had not actually eaten anything.

By the time his usually organized room was a completely mess, Steve was at the center of it. He nearly shoved it all back into the closet like a dejected child.

Good God, this shouldn't be  _this_  hard.

He sat down on the rumpled black covers of his bed and stared at the floor, practicing his breathing. When he saw that he'd somehow managed to completely break a wooden hanger in his chaos, a smile twitched to his face—which grew into a wistful chuckle, and finally a laugh. He was glad he could laugh at himself to be in such a situation. It made Steve realise that he had a lot of material to work with, and that if he just calmed down he would find a sensible look.

With the rest of the Avengers here nor there, Steve cleared his throat quietly from where he sat.

"Excuse me, Jarvis…right?"

Although he could almost imagine the whirls of wiring and mechanisms hiding in the depths of Stark Tower, the monotone voice responded instantly to the question.

"That is correct, Captain Rogers. Might there be something you request?"

Steve resisted shuddering at the idea of talking to absolutely no one, less there was a way for the…voice…to see him and become offended.

"I was wondering about the temperature outside, and for later this evening."

"Fahrenheit or Celsius, sir?"

Steve blinked, drawing a blank for a moment. Of course Stark's robot couldn't be straight forward about something as simple as the weather. "Fahrenheit, I'd imagine."

"The temperature tonight across the bay and along Long Island will be at 39 degrees, with a risk of snow flurries and high wind mileage."

"Uh," Steve's eyes trained instantly on his warmer wear, and the whole debacle of dressing properly for his date seemed to ease. "Perfect. That's great, thank you, er, Jarvis."

"Of course, Captain."

And, without a proper means of making an exit, the voice was gone. The hair on the back of Steve's neck rose at the following silence. He'd never say it to anyone that ever asked, but Jarvis was creepy. It was truth. The darned thing was just plain creepy.

* * *

The curve of the full length mirror always made Steve do a double take whenever he caught his reflection there, which made him feel like some conceited moron whenever he ducked away. He often pretended not to take notice of his body, the swell of his muscles, the definition of his stomach, but some days even Steve had trouble believing that it was all real.

Tugging on plaid shirt, he fixed the collar straight about his neck which forced himself to come face to face with the blue eye'd man in the opposite world before him. His fingers froze, and slowly Steve allowed his eyes to study the reflection. The broadness of his own shoulders, the square of his jaw, and the compact degree of his chest—it seemed to be something that shouldn't ever be laced onto his body. Somedays Steve questioned if he was all a dream. It couldn't be real. It couldn't last. He shouldn't get his hopes up. His entire life, nearly twenty five years of it, the blond had been sickly. Asthma, hay fever, migraines, easily fatigued, the medical list went on forever. He was lucky if he could make a lap around the track of his high school, let alone ever dream of carrying a heavy machine gun. Back then he often tried to make up for his small size—he'd dress sharp, leading the eye away from how thin and how tired he seemed to be. He kept himself well read, and his mind razor sharp. And he knew someday, he'd get there.

Even if  _there_  meant he was about 70 years far,  _far_  over the rainbow from where he wanted to be.

He hooked the buttons leading up his shirt neatly before he reached for a tie along his closet rack. Tony had forced Steve out of his basic ties of black, brown or white into weird trends of colour. There was a bright red one, one with a penguin, and another that was a dark purple. Sighing, Steve chose what he hoped to be the least flashy of the bunch. It was slick silver colour, mixed together with a tinged of grey that lead to an interesting shiny effect if one glanced at it quickly. He slid it around his neck and hinged the knot tightly; thankful for the grip of some type of attire that felt he could wear, this time without any looks. Considering how chilly it would be he figured it'd only be fair to call for a decently warm maroon sweater from a hanger, adding simple grey slacks and a black belt, Steve checked his choices in the mirror one final time.

Adjusting the edges of the undershirt cuffs, Steve felt strangely prepared.

_There_ , he told himself faintly.  _You're getting somewhere, Rogers. Dapper or not._

His wristwatch finally seemed to pick up speed. It was 5:00.

* * *

The vibration of the motor cycle didn't help Steve's own nervous stomach from churning as he steered clear of the late evening rush for the movie theater. He cut off through a back alley, sped around a collection of old bricked apartment complexes, and found himself parking just 15 minutes shy of the ticket box itself. Easing out of his helmet, he felt a string twist tightly around his lungs, pulling them together as he feasted his sight on a movie complex since his incident.

It was all at once the same, and yet different. The large letters that sported each movie title to its own mini-wall of fame filled with light reminisced the cold cut black block letters of Steve's childhood. Much like the hypnotics of the subway exit and entry stops, the movie titles  _moved_ , bounced and flooded the large façade of the sign the screamed for attention to its passing public.

Steve felt star-struck as he maneuvered around the crisp shadows of people coming and going out its warm wide glass doors. The cement beneath Steve's shoes gave way to a squishier pressure, and when Steve tested the door of the joint to find that it too was splashed with painted false gold, he wasn't surprised to find a red carpet under his own feet. Somehow Steve expected limousines to pull up any second to start broadcasting a national event of stars scheduled to appear to see themselves perform—but staring out into the din and chase of the New York zags of yellows taxis, blues, reds, black cars speeding along without a second thought proved Steve wrong.

This was just a normal cinema night.

Steve swallowed as the grandiose flash and swirl of advertisements, candy and folks swarmed around him.

Thankfully, one thing that Steve found steadily amusing was the bored ticket vendor trapped inside his cone jail ceil that was lined with a little funny little slot for sliding out tickets or retrieving cash.

_Okay_ , Steve sniffed, accepting the scandal that the movies had become as best he could.  _This isn't much different from Howard Stark's World's Fair: "See The Technology of the Future"._  Just turns out that the guy was right about pretty much everything he ever said would come to trend. Steve practiced keeping a straight face as he approached the light that seemed to pour across the cold snowy skyline like a glass bottle of gasoline to a fire; the shadows her smoke, the snow her impurities.

_This…isn't that big of a deal_ , Steve promised to himself as he approached the ticket booth.  _No problem._

"Evenin,'" Steve glanced up at the flashing lights behind the kid, and found himself instantly reading off not one, not two, but  _dozens_  of movie titles in a row. Hands tapping idly at the tiny metal microphone from inside the booth, the young teenager clicked his teeth absently at Steve, his gaze seeming far off and his eyes slightly cloudy. After a few seconds of whatever the heck that was, Steve was savvy enough to notice that people could order tickets without needing to read every single word.

"I'd like two tickets, please, to James Bond, thanks."

The black haired crown of overly gelled hair made the kid's face look long and pale. " _Skyfall_ , comin' up, sir."

" _Skyfall_?" Steve asked, eyes darting back to the charts.

"That's the name of the newest Bond film."

"Right, thanks."

Taking his sweet time, the kid ducked down, nearly losing his work cap in the process. Fliers stuck up all over the sheets of the booth, and the closest one caught Steve's eye.

_The Motion Picture Association of America's film-rating system_ :

_G – General Audiences_

_PG – Parental Guidance Suggested_

_PG-13 – Parents Strongly Cautioned_

_R – Restricted_

_NC-17 – No One 17 & Under Admitted_

Slowly, Steve shifted to touch the words curiously. He got the gist what it all meant, but R and NC-17? His eyebrows rose at the thought of what such a picture could possibly contain.

Contrary to Tony's belief, the last film the soldier had ever seen was not  _The Wizard of Oz_ , but  _Gone with The Wind,_ an' _The Hutchback of Notre Dame_. Steve wasn't too large a fool to get that even movies back then had their rough spots—heck, Bucky had shoved him more times into more grimy cinema seats than Steve could count, leaping at the dumb shot of catching some image of a naked woman after the Hays code passed. He could still recall ducking down at just the right angle when they knew their sorry hides would be tossed out if a roaming flashlight caught a single hair of them. It wasn't Steve's favourite place to be. Not when he knew that it wasn't real—just some Jane that thought stripping her clothes off was some high class love affair. When he was a kid, he didn't question why it made him feel so uncomfortable. But as the years passed, and he watched Bucky get taller, gain more stone and grit to his smile, Steve figured it had something to do with the fact that no miraculous change such as that was going to strike him.

Somehow Bucky, in the flicker of the projector, was a regular Clark Cable. And Steve? Well… at least that Hutchback guy had someplace to hide his own irregularities.

But he decided not to fester on it. Dancing seemed stressful, anyhow. Clubs seemed too chaotic. So what if a gal's eye never turned towards him in the daylight? Soon, war broke out and priorities happened.

But even jokingly with his pal, the act of sneaking into some sleazy film just made Steve feel ashamed. And he supposed that sneaking into the pictures still happened with kids today than he could wrap his head around.

The microphone made a rude sound of clearing its throat.

"That'll be 20 bucks," the kid's drone echoed boredly.

Steve exchanged the bill and collected the thin square passes, interested that the way tickets were made seemed to be static. Running a thumb over the tickets surface, Steve held it up to compare it to the Film Rating Chart. From behind the glass the teen's interest seemed to rise ever so slightly. He'd never seen someone, certainly a grown single bro, actually give a damn about that stupid chart before.

"Do you need further help, mister?"

Steve felt bombarded by the tiny type of myriad numbers and letters across the pass. What if  _Skyfall_  was somehow like the films that Bucky pushed him into? Sure, he'd matured in a thousand ways since 30's, but to sit next to Beth on their  _first date_  for Pete Sake, and watch two actors completely nude getting closer, and  _closer_ ….probably more liberal and wild than anything Steve would  _ever_ be prepared to face…the whole scene made his stomach flip and land wrong inside of him.

"I was just wondering what  _Skyfall_  was rated."

"PG-13."

Relief rushed through Steve's veins. "So it's pretty tame?"

The kid before him looked exasperated as ever, a glint of impulse lining his glare. "It's a James  _Bond_ flick, sir. I mean, I know everything rebooted is complete bullshit, but I hear this one isn't too bad. Daniel Craig isn't Connery, but it's worth your money. Now, please step aside. You're holding up the line."

Steve moved along as he was told, wondering how that kind of explanation made sense to anyone.

The inside of the movie theater was a palace of bright colour. Sour smells of overly buttered popcorn, pop drinks, and lines were everywhere _. Lots_  of lines. The round front area was a lobby made up of lines of people. Lines for drinks, lines for specialty tickets—Steve could only imagine what the line for the bathroom must've looked like. The carpet beneath the sole of Steve's feet turned from red to a twisty patterned of cartoony movie tickets, popcorn pieces, and snow covered shoe prints. The walls were a dark blue, and wonderful pictures of movie stars, all hand drawn in black ink, lined anywhere Steve looked. He actually recognized a few—and was proud of himself for recognizing the daughter of the Barrymore lineage Beyond the sea of patrons, overstuffed with trays, popcorn tubs of red and white stripes and Coke soda, two long shadowy hall ways spit just off to either side ominously.

Steve stopped, backed up a few feet, and decided that it'd be a better idea to wait outside once again before the smell gagged him.

* * *

The soft outline of the nightlight slowly blinked it's neon eyes as it sleepily awoke all around Steve's head as 6 o'clock came 'round. Tall towers glowed like lighthouses, guiding the ebb and flowing waves of screeching, honking, squalling traffic that zoomed in and out, and people seemed to never stop arriving.

Steve stood nearest to the pillar coated in miniature snowflakes that blinked in time to a song that kept repeating a line that went  _have a holly jolly Christmas, it's the best time of the year._  Casually, a black man with a green sweater lit up a cigarette about a foot away from Steve, and the smoke curled thick into the chilly wind, occasionally lingering out his nostrils as the man spoke to another fella of his.

Waiting before seemed like a circle of hell. A hell that was made up of happy go-lucky Christmas crooners and warm woolen shirts and excited smiles. But a hell, never the less, as he raced to the plaza. But now Steve had nothing left to do. Nothing but to stare into the icy frost hanging from the lights and pretend that he was as cool inside as he was out.

Eventually the man finished his cigarette and flushed it out under his heel before slandering off his with friend into the fiery lights of the cinema's lobby. Steve could only gander that the whole deal must've taken five minutes, and he sighed.

It looked like time would always be Steve's enemy.

A few more snowflakes swooped and danced with each other through the air, banging into the LED lights and spinning the patterns along the cement. Steve watched them turn, amused by the effect when a shadow stood over them.

"Steve Rogers?" A calm feminine voice asked him.

Steve's mouth went dry.

Beth stood in the center of the snowfall, tiny pieces of ice sewn into her long curling hair that fell languid past her shoulders, reflecting the passing traffic in a watery glow. She was wrapped in a peach coloured jacket that clung to the curve of her figure with four large round brown buttons that hung loosely from her chest to her waist. Peeking from the slightly open collar, Steve could see that she had also "layered" like he had attempted. A cashmere grey covered her neck line modestly, although Steve instantly wanted to find reason to touch the soft downy curled there. Her honey-blonde hair seemed to shake itself out in the wind, constantly changing its style from windblown rebellion to curly studded silver. Whenever the cold ripped through her, her cloth made movements like the material enjoying giving its owner a hug.

Steve had never wanted a cigarette so badly in all of his life.

"Beth," Steve tried not to let his excitement shake her name. "It's such a pleasure to see you again."

She smiled at him, looking so much like a handcrafted doll. The creamy-peach of her outfit reminded Steve of when they first met—she really  _did_  look real nice in soft pastels. It made Steve feel better to know that perhaps Beth knew she did as well.

"Really, the pleasure is all mine," The way she said this seemed almost like she had an inside joke to it. Beth's makeup seemed demure as it was before. Although, there was definitely rouge this time to redden her cheeks—that or Steve realized that he had her standing out in the cold with blizzard warnings all around them.

"It's pretty chilly out, huh? Would you like go inside?"

Her eyes shifted ever so slightly toward the ticket vendor. "Do you plan on smuggling me in?"

She raised her eyebrows at Steve's off put expression. His reactions were something to get used to.

Steve did a double take at the ticket booth. " _Oh_ , no—I got them already."

His hand wavered like magic, and poof, two tickets appeared.

She turned her small purse from hand to hand. "Steve, that was really nice. I brought my own money and everything, you know. So, I'll buy us the snacks."

Steve took notice of the grubby kid's cold expression from the booth, and he lowered his voice. "I'm glad you say 'buy', because the service here certainly has changed since I last saw a movie. Makes me want to swindle in candy."

"My mother and I used to do that all the time, but it's true about most movie houses. I guess I can relate though. Once you work a job serving the major public, it's hard to get over it." She smirked. "What's the last movie you've seen?"

Steve could feel the sweat seeping into his ticket from his palm. The last movie he'd seen hadn't been shown on any silver screen in nearly 50 years. Quickly he thought fast, flipping through for anything that might pass for recent. And, like a prayer, he spotted a name he hadn't considered would still exist anymore.  _Disney_. A Disney production poster for a 'coming soon' film called  _Monsters University._

"Disney. Uhm," Steve grimaced. "I mean,  _Snow White_. There was a special showing of it up on the East Side a few years go."

In truth,  _Snow White and The Seven Dwarfs_  was an achievement that had been talked about long after most live production shows had died down. A bit of an interest in drawing himself, Steve was fascinated with the motion of the animation cells across the screen. Bucky called him a complete pushover, (although Barnes had a dame wrapped around him as they squished in to watch a child's movie, so Steve smacked the back of his head and told him that it took one to know one.) but Steve learned to take Bucky's caterwauling with a grain of salt. Sure, Steve's own cartoons would never move, but he could still enjoy the art of animation. Disney was on to something special.

Beth's smile widened, and then she laughed.

"What?" Steve asked, buffeted.

"You're just really cute." Beth stiffed a giggle. "That's really cool. I adore Disney myself. I can't wait for them to re-release  _The Little Mermaid_."

Steve's swallowed nervously at her compliment, wishing he could just as easily tell her that she looked, frankly, adorable. But he couldn't get the words out beyond the over inflation of his adam's apple.

"I have to admit that I haven't seen much of anything film wise."

"That's okay. This is my first James Bond film too. Which…we should probably go see before we both freeze out here?" Beth offered with shiver.

"That's fine by me." Steve instantly felt like a schmuck having her standing out here still. He didn't get cold nearly as easy as he used to, but still, he could relate. Winter for a twig guy in Brooklyn was miserable.

Beth's face lit up, as if she just realized that their date was actually happening, framed by the LED glow of fake snowflakes. "I've been looking forward to this all day."

"Me too," Steve grinned.  _And maybe a few weeks, or months before that._

Beth's shoes clicked quietly along the ground, but suddenly Steve seemed to be already at the edge of the door, holding it open. Nervously, she thanked him, although apart of her wondered how he moved so fast. She didn't think her legs were that short.

The popcorn scented air warmed the couple up instantly. To Steve's encouragement the lines had died down to only a few stragglers. Beth marveled at the newest movie preview from a flat television screen from above, and Steve happily watched her watching it.

"Do you have a favourite candy?" He asked, inching towards the closest glass top counter.

"Oh no you don't. When I offer to do something, what I really mean is that I'm going to do it, and you really shouldn't stop me." Beth's blue eyes flashed, she raced ahead to the counter, allowing the swing of her arm to lightly tap Steve's side. The side of Steve's mouth lifted at her attention to his willingness to pay.

"Hurm," Beth's brows tightened together at she pondered over the rainbow of choices. "I'll have a large popcorn, some water, and…what would you like?"

Steve barely looked upwards to consider. "I'll have what the lady is having."

Beth smirked into his jest, studying Steve's droll expression from the corner of her eye. The college student with a nametag that said _Sally_ rolled her eyes before the pair, clearly unimpressed.

"Could you combine our checks? We're going to share." Beth continued. Sally turned and fetched the popcorn.

"Share?" Steve asked quickly.

"Well," Beth's blush seemed to darken. "Isn't that the classic idea?"

"It sounds just fine to me."

Sally returned with the stripped bag and two bottles of water. Lazily, she gave Steve a once ever, and her pierced eyebrow twitched. Suddenly her voice seemed more pleasant. "Would you like anything else, sir? Is the film you're seeing a 3-D one?"

Beth turned to Steve, one arm reaching into her purse to pay. "3-D, right, I meant to ask you. Did you buy  _Skyfall_  in 3-D?"

_3-D?_  Oh great, and he thought he'd gotten past the worse of it. Steve scrounged around for the tickets folded in his pants pocket, and pulled them out. "I uh, don't believe so. I just asked for  _Skyfall_. The kid out front didn't mention—"

"Let me see your ticket, please." Sally quipped, making for Steve's hand. "Ah, no, you have regular seats, but you should really try 3-D sometime. It's gimmicky, but I swear sometimes it's something really special." She almost seemed sorry she had nothing else to hand over to the blond solider. "That'll be $11. 50." She deadpanned at Beth.

As they moved away, Steve could still feel Sally's gaze digging into the back of his head, and it filled him with worry.  _3-D._  Steve wondered if he'd slipped up already. He knew he should've asked Doctor Banner or  _someone_  about the movies, but he…darn it, he knew he couldn't be that bad. His blue eyes jumped to Beth, although she seemed none the wiser. Maybe he should just address it now…

Steve wanted to hide his face in the open maw of the yellow popcorn below him. "Good grief," he muttered. He shifted the near nonsexist weight of the bag to his other arm. "Do you think she noticed?"

Beth strolled closely beside him. "Noticed what?"

"That I have no idea what '3-D' even is?"

Beth's head slowly turned to look at Steve dead on, and his fingers curled roughly around the bag in defense. Her lips pursed before she spoke, but she said next wholly surprised him.

"Would you like to try it out?"

* * *

_"Right,"_

_"She got you out!"_

_\- "Christmas Bells"- Roger, Mark, RENT_

* * *

**AN** : Thank you SO much again for all the follows, favourites, and reviews! I just squee inside over reviews! I like to think I work pretty hard on this long story, and I'm so sorry that it churns out slowly. But, you know, slow churned ice cream is the best!

Unless it melts.

Then it's just like, all over your shoes, and sticky and...uh.

What was I talking about?


	8. The Movie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of "The First Date"

Chapter 8: Movie

**AN:** Look it' lil ole Kay! Keepin' her promises and everything! Ah-mazing. Thank you again for the follows and reviews. I just. Can't stop smiling. Please enjoy part 2 out of 4 of their date. ;) Minor spoilers for  _Skyfall_. Don't worry, I keep things  _very_  ambiguous!

* * *

[MIMI] They say I have the best ass below 14th street. Is it true?

[ROGER]  _What?_

[MIMI] You're staring again.

[ROGER] Oh no! I mean you do - have a nice -I mean! - You look familiar!

[MIMI] Like your dead girlfriend?

* * *

There was something black and shimmery that sat nearest to the left hallway of the lobby, and Beth made no haste in steering Steve towards it. It looks like the decorated underside of an old jalopy with two seats placed deep inside a few low sides. It had two screens showing off explosions and other glossy images with a weird haze to their quality. Upon approach, Steve wondered who obviously stole the steering wheel to the machine.

"All right," Beth declared happily. "I present to you: 3-D!"

Steve's grin is a little lackluster, searching for what exactly he was supposed to do.

"What does 3-D mean anyway?" Really, he wasn't stalling.

"Three Dimensional. Basically it makes the movie's characters and actions pop out of the screen onto your face, like they're truly there in front of you."

Steve looked at the right screen again to see a dark hooded figure riding an overly sleek motorcycle into an orange explosion and nearly gaped. It certainly didn't look like fun. Steve had seen enough explosions to last him a good while, thank you very much.

"Erm," Steve could feel himself trying to get away. This was the iced coffee all over again.

But then again, the iced coffee was an _independent variable_  that gained him this chance with Beth. (as Stark would've probably described it.)

"Here, I'll get in with you," Beth offered, already scooting down into one of the seats. The ruffle of her coat hiked up around her shoulders, pushing the gleam of her hair further into the purple light above.

Well. If she was there, that didn't seem so bad.

Beth stared up at Steve, her blue eyes pleading. "I promise it's not scary."

Steve lowered himself inside, extremely aware that their shoulders were touching. "I'm not scared," He tried to laugh it off. "T—"

Steve stopped himself. He almost said  _Tony's made me aware that horror films are the worst now a days._

"T—trust me," Steve unfroze himself. "I'm sort've a horror movie fan." There. It wasn't too much of a little white lie.

"Are you?"

"Only if it's bad." Whatever a 'bad' movie really meant. He heard Clint and Tony complain about it all the time, especially when Thor was involved with picking the picture. Steve was almost always impressed with the effects—even if they weren't up to believable par. He just enjoyed watching as the movie era grew into a more professional skill.

She threw back her head to laugh, and Steve's eyes were drawn to the curve of her neck. A thin silver chain twinkled between the blonde strands. "Cheesy horror movies are the best movies."

"So," Steve squinted at the screens before them, noticing not a hair of difference. "Is it working?"

"I don't think that's a question I can answer for you." Something clunked beside Beth, and soon she was handing him a pair of glasses. Confused, the blond took them politely.

"I actually have fine eyesight. Are these really necessary?"

"Mhmm," Beth hummed, slipping them on. "You'll see."

The soldier suspiciously put them on, instantly irked by just how dark the entire world around him had grown. He could hardly see Beth beside him—and even worse, it seemed like she was out of focus for some reason. He lifted the glasses again, screwing up his eyes. Now she looked fine.

Beth stared back at him, and Steve felt himself flush. "May I?" She asked.

Steve slowly nodded, unsure of what he was doing wrong. Carefully, Beth's hand reached over, the soft pads of her fingers pressing against Steve's cheek, moving him back towards the screen. One hand clinched to the far off side the instant they made contact. Steve questioned if it was really happening.

And then the gushing, fiery explosion on screen hit him clear in the face.

Steve steeled his shoulders back as he flinched, shifting hard along the edge of the chair—shoes nailed to the floor. His eyes slammed shut, hard, and his heart beat was in his ears—loud. He was breathing far too loud.

Suddenly the light beyond his eyelids seemed brighter. Someone was breathing, close, so very close to his own mouth—it was tinted in a sweet, warm rush.

"Oh my God." Beth's voice was suddenly very upset beside him, triggering Steve's senses back to reality. "Oh, my, God." She repeated, emphasizing every word. Steve cracked open one eye to witness Beth tossing both glasses away, muttering to herself. Her entire face was a bright red.

Steve's winced off looking at that terrible screen again, nearly reaching out for her.  _Did she see that explosion too? She saw it right?_  Steve's heart trembled. _Did it scare her?_  Suddenly, a terrible thought crossed his mind.

He could see her oh so many months ago in the back of his mind. just beyond the grime and blood of his mask. Screaming, tears flowing from her eyes as the Chitauri threatened everyone in the station. She could duck down, she could cry out—but even Steve's body curled around the grenade couldn't stop its sound. Terror as it ripped and pushed bodies through the air, falling apart around her.

_Did I scare her?_

He found he couldn't breathe.

_Oh no._

"Beth? It's okay—"

"No." She was still, her back to him. "No, that  _wasn't_  okay. Steve." She turned to face him, and her eyes seemed practically watery. "I am  _such_ an inconsiderate moron. Are  _you_  okay?" A hand reached out—maybe for his face, maybe for his hand—but it stopped midair.

They paused, tripping over their own words. Beth got hers out better.

"You mentioned you just got back from…from  _war_  of all horrible things, and just… _I am so sorry._ " Her hands were pulling at her hair. "I just didn't think. I just don't think."

Steve leaned over more, wanting to calm her but not knowing how.

"Beth—that—that wasn't your fault. Honestly. It's alright," His voice lowered gently, although his heart jammed itself so roughly against his rib cage he was sure it was bruised. He struggled for a tangible second if this was  _his_  voice, or Captain America's comfort, but whomever it was, it had to be said, and fast. "Really. I'm just…really grateful that you got those blasted glasses off." He tried to lighten the mood again. "But you were right. That was some serious  _3-D."_

She tried to smile, but it fell apart like a wet napkin of blush and lipstick. "I just thought it'd be fun to show you. I'm so sorry…if…if that was…" She couldn't even finish the sentence. She stared into the screen now, and Steve wondered if she saw The Battle of New York in tiny repeating pictures like he did. Her own personal war that everyone was too disturbed to talk about. The civilian war of life struggling to go on.

Steve stood up, stepping out of the seat and found a way to take her hand. He extended it to her and after a brief second she took it. He held her grip tightly as she stood. She was trembling.

"Beth," He looked at her meaningfully, trying to plead with his eyes like she was already so good at. "Don't worry about it. It's not like our movie is in 3-D, right?"

She steeled in his grip, giving his fingers a single squeeze before letting go. "Right," her voice seemed to be turning back its lovely self once more. "I forgot how intense it's gotten."

Steve picked up the bag again, grateful for something warm to hold across his hands. They had gone numb the second the explosion happened. "Certainly nothing like any picture I've ever seen."

They both chuckled nervously together as they walked through the coolness of the hallway.

* * *

The round white lights dimmed slowly from their watch on the ceiling making Steve feel smaller and smaller from where he sat. The velvet looking walls held orange glowing pictures of a star-lit drive, and the ocean, which quickly faded out like bright stars.

Beth settled in beside him, the black armrests locking them apart from one another, although Beth's arm laced ever so slightly over the edge to touch Steve's own arm—the warmth from her body was strangely calming, as his heart was still doing little thumps.

"How do you feel about previews?"

Steve thought for a moment. "You mean like the cartoons?"

Beth's lips rolled together, shining the lipstick there a light pink. "Cartoons?"

"Yeah," Steve eases back in his chair, trying to relax. "Um, Disney. Do they not play those anymore?" __  
  
"Disney," Beth whispered it softly. She picks a top piece from the popcorn between them, and chews it thoughtfully. It's quiet to her, but to Steve's ears it's bumping against the silence like a steady clap. She wants to ask him very badly when he'd exactly saw a movie last, but she just can't. She already scared the poor guy enough for the day. She was honestly surprised when he sat down beside her, and didn't just make for the glowing emergency exit. Then she remembers what he means.

"They sometimes do!" She springs back to life, and it surprises Steve so much that a piece of popcorn is halfway in, halfway out from between his lips. A hand flashes up to cover his mouth.  
Beth nervously shrinks down in her seat. "Sorry. I just, they still do. Usually only before Disney films."

"Oh, well that's good to hear that they're still in style." This seems to please her date, and Beth smiles.

"What they play now is more so upcoming features for new movies."

"Really? I would think they'd take advantage of the crowd sourcing and play the news." Steve's brows furrow together for a second, but they ease when Beth looks at him again with concern in her eyes. "Well, you know…like they do on the television. About the attack."

Their hands knock together as they both reach for the popcorn at the same time. Beth pulls back, pretending to want to her drink more, but the water fills her mouth with a taste of regret, unable to forgive herself for her own stupidity.

Her swallow is loud in Steve's ears.

"I think…people come to the movies to escape. To…try to be somewhere else for a while." Her voice is quiet in the hush, and Steve realises that this is the point where talking must be whispered about. "I don't think we like to think of it as escapism, but…still. That's what it is."

A slender hand reaches back to push a blonde curl behind her ear. Steve's gaze is intense upon her suddenly. She hurries to finish her thought. "Do you ever wish to be elsewhere? Like, when you read? Or…draw?"

Steve's timbre voice seems even lower as he hoarsely whispers: "You remember my drawings?"

Beth's hands fly up, motioning in the air with delight over Steve's modesty. "Remember, of course I do—" Her hands drop to back into her lap bashfully. "I mean, I'm sorry if that was eavesdropping of me, but not all of my costumers sit there and draw and look so…"

Steve's turns his head ever so slightly at her, and Beth skips whatever it was she was about to say.

"You really do have a gift for it. I'd love to see them again, sometime. Or just…you know, watch you draw. You seem really, I dunno, into enjoying what you're creating. And..well," Her fingers tighten over the arm of the seat. "I really admire that. The first time we met, I wanted to go back and ask you more about it. My best friend, Ronda, she loves street artists, and well…I was going to actually pay you to draw something for her." A sad laugh slips through her lips. "But, you were gone already."

Steve finds himself wishing the lights would blow out in distraction to cover his blush in the darkness at her praise. He'd always been so self-conscious about his scribbles.

"It's just hobby, really, but it means a lot that you noticed."

Beth's smirk is back, delicate along the left side of her cheek. "And I noticed that you've avoided the question."

Steve steels himself.

"Do you wish to be elsewhere, sometimes? Um," She pauses, slowly considering how much privacy she could be invading. "In your drawings?

Steve's expression is waxing on tenebrous when the lights hide them both entirely. The faintest outline visible is of his jaw, the flicker of his light eyes, and Beth wonders what his true emotion is, but the question is out and she can't see it. She wonders if she ever will. There's a lengthy pause.

"I used to wish I could go back in time. Before my departure. But…." He licks his lips, the salt running his throat dry. "This…this right here, is nice." The shadows shift, and the outline of his arm is coated a white-blue. "The movie might not be real, and we may not be able to live in it forever. But I'm glad I'm here with you."

They both blush in the dim movie light that's caressing their face. Beth wants to hold his hand so badly, but she's afraid of groping around in the dark. Knowing her luck, and she'd accidently fondle his lap—not a very romantic impression.

* * *

It seems all too soon when the movie actually starts, and  _Steve is not prepared._

The screen, so much wider and bigger and brighter than anything he's ever seen ever, and the piano  _bangs_ into his ears from the massive speakers to either side, leaving them ringing. His own water bottle jumps as he tries to hide his discomfort, as it is clear that no one around him is experiencing the same effect. The screen is a swirl of graphics and colours, and a young woman's voice is beautiful over the whole affair. Steve is flabbergasted as he is curious.

The man, whom Steve can only assume is the Bond fellow, hits the water hard and soon is being sucked down into the bottomless sand…consumed…suffocating. Steve head aches slightly, but he refuses to block it out. He takes a deep breath, as if he himself is drowning.

His breathing hitches when an obviously naked woman is flashed across the screen, the camera scandalously zooming down her body—and her eyes face the camera—her hair dark, her eyes brown…nearly black…her lips full and lush— _P_.

Steve breathes out, closes his eyes, chiding himself.

It was ridiculous to feel this way, but his palms sweat.

The imagery is incredible. Tiny flicks of bullets pierce the shadows dancing along the ground, under Bond's feet—mysterious animals and women disappearing and repeating—and Steve finds himself growing more and more accustom to what his character is all about.

* * *

That doesn't take long as Bond is soon thrusting about with a naked tramp across the screen.

Sex. Making love. Intercourse. Knockin' boots. A roll in the hay. Whatever it's called now a days, that's it.

James Bond is all about makin' woopie.

The unhidden, blatant, and slightly arrogant kind as well.

Steve resists the urge to act childish. To hide, or get up and go to the men's room, anything but watch anymore of what is going on, on screen. Occasionally he glances at Beth, but her expression is starry-eyed and far away, and obviously not upset at all about what's happening. He breathes deeply through his nose, flexing the fingers of his numbing hands.

All of Bond's women sinuate lust in every movement with red lipstick, and British accents. As a matter of fact, so does Bond. With the fetish for proliferating to the audience about showing more British loyalty that they could possibly muster, Steve wants to groan. He understands all the more how incompetent and stupid his own Captain America shtick must look, past and present.

Bond seems to be the perfection of a super spy. Charming, smooth, fast talking. His pride reminds Steve of Stark, grudgingly, as well as his ostentatious intimacy drive.

The worst part however, is the accent of the love interest. It physically  _hurts_  Steve when she talks. He can't blink when she's on screen. He can't close his eyes for a single second—for in the darkness it's her,  _Peggy_ , whispering to him. In the darkness it's not a fictional character, but Peggy taking a tumble with some Joe with blonde hair and blue eyes that looks so much like Steve but isn't, can  _never_  be, because he left her. He's not there—he's gone. Gone. Drowning. Sinking. Growing colder, and  _colder._

All around the movie theater grows steadily freezing, but he can't will himself to move.

Truth be told, he did find the whole film very engaging, between the aching of his temples and the whispers of a thousand words that he'd never hear Peggy say to him ever again. When he finally loses the feeling in his fingers, Steve knows he has to try to steady himself. He's come so far. He can't back down.

He digs deep into his memory and recalls the old trick move that Bucky would try to rub off on every dame he frolicked with. You fake a yawn, move into a stretch, and place it around her. Simple enough.

From the corner of his eye, Steve finds that Beth is completely enthralled in yet another scene—but thankfully it's tinted with a more romantic tone. A more important gal—with beautiful dark skin and curling black hair—is giving Bond a close shave with a straight razor. Twitching his right hand, Steve's muscles recall the movements of his own straight razor shaves. (Much more effective than the motorized junk Tony insists upon.) Steve yawns quietly, reaches up and managed to actually successfully gather his arm around Beth.

_Bucky would be so proud_ , Steve thinks to himself with a bit of moxie.

Instantly, he's warm. No. He's more than warm. The skin under his collar is  _burning_  up, and he can feel the sweat gliding down his neck. The shaving scene takes  _a lot_  longer than expected, and no amount of concentration can resist Steve's eye from playing a game with him. And ever so briefly, he wonders if Beth and he could ever be so close together. Lips practically touching with every muttered word—and she'd have his razor slowly grazing across his cheek, he'd hold nothing back but to lift his hands to her face and open mouth kiss her,  _right there_ , steaming and covering them both with shaving—

Nope. His arm is his again, but his body feels nicely toasted, and he figures that he's good for a least an hour more.

* * *

His arm sneaks back around Beth for a second time, and is resting comfortably when suddenly the unthinkable happens. Bond lets a young woman die. Steve nearly panics right there in his seat. The arm around Beth's shoulders tightens and rocks her as he startles. Their eyes meet worriedly. His eyes cling to Beth for reason, but she appears just as stunned as Steve is.

Steve pulls himself back together with a clear of his throat.

She didn't just die. She's shot right through the chest by the villain. Right there. Gone. And Bond…just watches…just  _watches_  it all happen…

Steve swallows the tight lump in his throat, his mind buzzing with how he could have saved her. Even if a gun was held to his head, he'd try. He wouldn't just…

Beth herself winces at the sound of the gun, curling her spine into the cushion of the seat. She remembers being held to alien gunpoint—dust swirling around and the pounding of her heart as she nearly vomited in fear. And suddenly, Captain America was there. Saving, not just her, but everyone packed into the station from the shrapnel of the grenade.

Beside her, Beth notices Steve's own distress.

His fist closes tightly as he glares on—but suddenly a fluttering smoothing motion travels up his arm. It's Beth. She's not looking at him, but somehow…she's there, lightly prodding at the muscles in Steve's fist, and her thumb slowly traces across his knuckles. Steve allows his fist to uncurl.

The popcorn is forgotten for the rest of the movie as they fail to move. But they've touched. And that's enough.

* * *

When  _Skyfall_  is over, Steve isn't sure who is more relieved, Beth, or himself.

"So what'd you think of your first James Bond movie?" For some reason, Steve sounds breathless.

"It was a rush. A very shocking rush." She breathes out slowly. "And you?"

Steve blinks a few times to gauge his reaction. How did it make him feel? Re-live most of his time with Peggy, it seemed. Have him sweat under his collar, most definitely. But when he recalls placing his arm around Beth, it turns out he thinks it to be a pretty snazzy film.

"He's quite the character. I had no idea one man could get so many broads."

Beth sputters her laugh, sounding a bit like the old water facet in Steve's apartment bathroom. Steve raised his eyebrows at her curiously.

"Didn't you know that James Bond is the poster man for sexual deviousness?"

Steve whistles. "Not even in the slightest."

Beth swirls her hand around in the small pouch of her purse, and a tiny small screen reads out to be 9:00pm. The foreshadowed snow flurries that Jarvis had mentioned eerier seemed to be gently littering the streets in patches of shiny, tinkering ice. Beth's hair swirls out tastefully about her, and her eyes reflect the glow of the snowflakes waltzing in the air.

"Well," She sounds sad when she finally interjects Steve's wishful view of her. "it's 9 o'clock exactly. Great timing to call it a night."

Steve's hand still tingles slightly from where she traced her thumb across it in the darkness. He cranes his neck to get a good look at Stark Tower, and even from a distance Steve still feels disdain in every attempt at going back to it.

"Do you really want to leave?" Steve lays the question lightly in the air, truly not wanting to part just yet. "I mean, I completely understand if you've gotta be somewhere…but I really do love walking around at night. It feels good to stretch my legs, too. That movie was longer than  _Gone With The Wind._ "

This wins a bright grin from Beth, showing all of her teeth, just like the smile she had given him when they first met, and she had turned back to look at him.

"I didn't want to push my time with you," She glances at him shyly from behind her lashes, but her face lights up. "I just felt so bad about, well, the glasses." She bites her lower lip in a way that Steve thought gals didn't actually do.

But  _Lord_ , she's actually  _biting_  her lip in distress.

Steve forces himself to talk or else he'd just stare like a dunce. "Beth, really, you shouldn't worry about that. It wasn't your fault."

"—I know, I know," Beth agrees softly. Her smile darkens ever so slightly. "I'm sorry again, you know."

"I know you know," Steve chuckles into his answer.

"Any place in particular you'd like to go?"

Across the glittering, shifting waves of traffic, Steve sees the answer twinkling before him just along the dark bay.

"How does Coney Island sound?"

* * *

_[ROGER] Only when you smile. But I'm sure I've seen you somewhere else.._  - Mimi, Roger, "Light My Candle",  _RENT_

* * *

**AN:**  God, they're so freakin' adorably awkward, I can't even. Can you guys even? Because I can't even. Poor Steve. There's nothing anyone could have done to prepare him for the bombastic Bond. It was my first Bond movie too, Goldenpuon. c; And hey, thanks to everyone for giving Beth a chance to breathe and gain character. I can't wait to lace Ronda into the story. Woo, buddy.

Also, thanks for the comments about if I'm writing Steve well! It sincerely means a lot, as I try my very best to research and bring him to life for you guys.

Basically I learned that my lust to be a classy mother-fucking gentleman is x100000 increased. Any else else get that way? No? Okay. well, stay classy. Update in another day or so. c:

**ps.**  Oh my, Captain Rogers! Thinkin' about getting all hot and bother with Beth, hummmmm? Wonder when that'll start taking off...well, once you two stop being so perfectly awkward, jesus, we can't handle it.


	9. A Nostalgic Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 3 of "The First Date"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much again Noctemus!~

Chapter 9: A Nostalgic Gift

**AN:**  Please enjoy. Part 3/4. Poor Steve. The things I do to this man. And Beth, as well! Ah well, let's see what trouble our two lil' birds run into next?

* * *

Take your powder - take your candle,  
Your sweet whisper  
I just _can't_  handle.  
Well, take your hair in the moonlight,  
Your brown eyes - goodbye, goodnight...  
I should tell you I should tell you-  
I should tell you I should - no!

* * *

Beth's hand felt strangely soft mixed against the rough palm of Steve's own, but that's where it stayed. He wasn't sure who made that kind of connection first—but it made his entire arm tingle when she squeezed his hand—because that's what he understands now: Beth's a bit over the top with her excitement. Sheer delight, Steve would coin it, though—it made him wonder, really. And it struck him think of the last movies he had ever seen. He mostly really got a kick out of the previews that were all kinds of fun black and white cartoons. The last one Steve recalls is a Disney flick, with two Mouse type characters—and the female reminds him most of Beth. Minnie, he believes to be her name. And in consequence, Steve imagines her like the cartoon character  _Minnie Mouse,_ with tiny sounds that make her light up brighter than all of Time Square. Energy—Beth was full of energy in everything she did—and Steve felt like he was constantly moving forward with her, hand in hand, able to physically feel every reaction she had.

The smooth cuff of Steve's dark jacket is forcefully tugged at due to Beth's brisk walking pace, but Steve doesn't mind keeping up. It takes quite a bit to get him winded and he enjoys the motion of moving forward so quickly. It helps him pretend that maybe he's moving into the future as purposefully as Beth is. The downside to Beth's fast walking is avoiding collusions with other grumpy Christmas shoppers—more than twice Steve find himself apologizing for bumping into a large stack of bags or so. Occasionally they bump into each other, but Steve plays it off by gently holding her back from a particularly eye-catching sparkle of an ice slick that would doom them to fall into a worse state of embarrassment.

The island walk's pavement paraded around the pair in great ostentatious cascades of silver twine, gleaming oval bulbs, and the rich scent of fresh balsam spilling from every crack of a lit-up store door and snow cluttered fire escape.

Cheeks pink between her brisk stride in the gustily chills, Steve thinks it a trick of atmosphere to suddenly find himself nose to nose ( or more so nose to forehead) when Beth turns back to look at him. The red lights strung between the iron bars of the metal gates, beams, and cable wires criss-cross along her hair like tiny ghostly ribbons, and Steve's fingers flex to shake out the reaction to touch them. Her lips part as she eyes him, her brows raised, her lips white and chapped. Suddenly, Beth's eyes grow huge.

"Oh my God! D'you see that?" The soft fluttering warmth flew from the cage of the super-soldier's fingers as Beth pointed. Twisting on a leather heel that crunched the snow beneath them, Steve looked in her direction to see a sudden massive crowd that had operatically gathered behind them.

And all at once, Steve feels the world spinning beneath them, faster and faster—and knows he has to out run it. His jaw tightens.

This was it. It was clear that he'd just gotten too careless and a civilian noticed him out in public. The crowd was coming for Captain America, and it was all Steve Rogers could do to not start dashing away, eyes wild and fearful and  _desperate_ —but he knows he'd look back at her ( _just like she had first looked back at him_ ), and whatever expression that would be on her face in that moment would make Steve fall into a shellshock worse than nights when he'd wake up screaming, covered in sweat, every inch of his body aching from hellish imaginary barbed wire from crawling under a German trench.

And at that same moment, Beth's hand returned Steve's world to a stop.

"It's a flash mob! I don't believe it! I thought these would only ever be staged and on YouTube!" Beth exclaimed merrily. Steve thoughts bunched around in his skull as he tried to grasp what exactly is going on.

"A…flash mob?" Steve knew about  _flashers,_  but a group of naked folks tramping around in the dead of Winter being a good thing was beyond him.

"Interested in seeing one?"

Steve fought the urge to look at her like she was crazy. "If you insist?"

The crowd itself seemed to be swaying in a way—and soon music—bright, loud; powerful music was wafting through the chilly evening air. Steve's eyes grew wide in wonder as they approached. A few couples split one way—some folks moved another, and suddenly Beth had managed to gain them both near front row seats to folks  _dancing_ , of all the wild things, right in the street!

Beth let out a quiet cheer as one young man lifted up his gal and nearly flung her around his side, swooping her back down between his legs and hoisting her up again. The crowd went nuts; they ate it up. Steve rubbed his eyes hard, not quite believing it himself. He'd  _seen_  that move before. In 1937, when Bucky's doll dizzy days were much more care free and Steve himself was too much of a shy dead hoofer to even think about joining on that bar's dance floor.

"They're  _swing_  dancing—I can't even  _believe_  it! Can you?!" Beth called over the rush of music, although Steve could still hear her fine.

"It's—it's something else, all right," Steve managed slowly, his eyes never leaving anyone that could keep the beat of the jazz players—God, how could he have  _missed_  that trumpet before, the snare drums?

"I think most of the dances they're preforming are from the 1950's," Beth continued. Steve felt Beth squeeze his hand in that delighted way that lit up his chest and made his heart pound. He could nearly slip into it…he could nearly pretend, just for a moment, that this was 1938….

"1940's," Steve corrected instantly, a little too loudly, and it made Beth look over him pointedly. Steve floundered for a reason to explain his biting tone.

"I have a—"

"Obsession?" Beth's mouth half smiled at him cutely.

Steve paused, considering through the noise around them. "I was gonna say 'hobby', but yeah, obsession is probably the truth of it."

"With the 40's?" she asked in surprise—her voice was full of interest.

Steve's heart sank low, but he swallowed the sadness in his voice when he answered her. "With nostalgia."

* * *

"Do you want to dance?" Her hand is out, patient and giving, her voice full of laughter.

Steve shifts from foot to foot anxiously. The British voices had been messing with his brain, and Peggy's voice is so crystal clear to him that he feels like he's falling into thousand pieces that will melt into the snow.

_Eight o'clock on the dot. Don't you dare be late! Understood?_  Her voice. So strong and commanding. Right to the end.

_You know, I still don't know how to dance._

Her desperate laugh. _I'll show you how. Just_  be _there._

"I…" Steve can't force the words out.

"I don't know how either, if that helps." Beth's voice is warm on the wind. "I've never danced."

Steve's mind flashed. He had said that once. Once when time was straight forward and he was still a dumb kid from Brooklyn that didn't stand a chance.

He resisted closing his eyes tight, resisting the sting in them.

Is this was the chance, why did it hurt so much?

* * *

Beth cannot even begin to understand the pain that's on Steve's face, and she quickly tries to mend. Why does she say such stupid things? Why does she keep hurting him?  _God, I_ suck _._  Ronda's voice in her head confirms it as well.  _You suck, girl._

"Maybe some other time?" Beth's voice is suddenly closer, and Steve can feel the wool of her jacket, nearly smell the sweet clear perfume of her hair. "I'd love to see the boardwalk at night."

He's still, even when she gives a small pull on his hand. His eyes are tight over the dancers, far away from her, and for a moment Beth wonders who he's thinking of. She only finds sorrow sitting her belly when she understands that maybe she's the relapse, or maybe the rebound. Beth bets that whoever it is must be gorgeous. And a great dancer.

She never should have said she couldn't dance.

"Steve?" Her voice is soft, full of concern, and it seems to knock Steve back to reality.

Suddenly his hand is in hers, tight and pressing down a bit too hard.

"The boardwalk, of course," His eyes don't meet hers. They're searching the black skylight, dodging snowflakes, already at the bay, and Beth can't keep up. "Please excuse me. Right this way." ****  
  
Steve tries his best to not shoulder his way through the crowd, tightly grasping Beth's hand behind him as he decides to take the lead for once. The glint of a large window-shop had been practically waving at him out the comer of his eye since they had strolled by to look at the swing crowd. When he stops by the holly-wreath on the glass door, Beth's head tilts endearingly at him. He really wants to try and fix what he's done. She may have scared him, but denying her something as simple and fun as a first dance has got to have a sting.

"What's up?" Her words touch his face in puffs of warm frost.

Steve's squinted hard into the window, zeroing in just along a little stack of neatly wrapped glittering foil and Christmas-y tins, he knows that he's found just what he's looking for.

"Beth, would you mind terribly if I go inside for a second?" Their hands slip apart as much as Steve doesn't want them to.

She gives him a knowing once over with a mischievous glint, but the cold has made her lips a bright red, and when she smiles it's like they're an opening winter rose. "Cold,soldier Steve?"

Steve flushes at his nickname, but is grateful that the collar of his wool jacket hides that it's traveled down his neck. "A bit," he adds softly, enough for Beth to know that he's not above sarcasm if it's a part of their agenda.

"Okay," she lowers her eyelids carefully at Steve, "Well, if you insist on being secretive, then I'm going to insist that I do the same."The long haired blonde turned on a dime and began her mini jog over to the adjacent shop.

Steve stepped inside and the heat instantly soaked into his socks and jacket, rushing the chill out of his fingers. Jars of honey, spices, and shimmering metal plates that turned in different patterns lined the ceiling and walls. The tile beneath Steve's leather shoes were caked with muddy snow and bits of twine. Along the upper cabinets of the shop lay a small venue of Disney merchandise—and there, straight out of Steve's foggy memory, was the cartoon mouse girl's trademark bow. He moseyed over to it eagerly, wanting to get to it before it disappeared like everything else always seemed to.

He recalled it from the talkies—they were always so upbeat, and musical, and she'd be sitting on the piano while  _Mickey_  (Steve had racked his brain  _hard_ for the male mouse's name) sat down to play it. And when he got up to sing, and the piano stool he sat on started to play in his stead. It was unexpectedly charming, hilarious even. And Steve could always recall how it made nearly everyone in the audience smile, or laugh. And that was needed. Certainly during the war, when the country needed it most.

And now a-days…after the attack…

Well, we still need it.

Maybe it was odd for a soldier like Steve to have such respect for something as childish as cartoons, but that was the truth. And it was a great surprise to see how well the mouse couple had taken off. Steve was glad they were still around, still wanted, and even beloved by so many generations. It made Steve felt like he had a chance, too. He could still picture the grainy film of the "A Mickey Mouse Cartoon" presenting itself. And Minnie's bow. That was iconic. That was wonderful. That was his memories. And that was exactly what had caught Steve's eye.

It rested on a tiny pair of earrings that glinted red and white, so much like Beth's smile, from the window at Steve since he started woolgathering about it all. He reached over and ran the pad of his finger over the finely raised crystals settled inside the round earing, noticing just how extremely small the set looked next to his seemly giant hand. He was almost afraid to purchase them now.

"Swarovski crystals, pavé and pound," A friendly voice called from the front of the shop. Steve turned with his hands instantly in his pockets, worried that the clerk might take him for trying to swindle.

"Sorry?"

"The Minnie Mouse earrings," The clerk was a tall man with owl-framed classes in an equally owl-themed bowtie. "They're Swarovski crystals." When Steve didn't respond, the man chuckled lowly. "Don't fret pal, just means that they're genuine, you know? They ain't diamonds, but they ain't trash."

" _Ah_ ," Steve forces the affirmative sound from the back of his throat like he's done this a hundred times before. Natasha once told Steve that he was genuine, and Steve wants the act of giving Beth the earrings to feel genuine—so he supposes it helps that they're apparently genuine as well. "Well, thanks." There's a slightly pause as the gift exchanges hands.

At the counter Steve finds himself actively glancing outside the frosty windows for Beth. The clerk himself hums "I'll be home for Christmas", which makes Steve feel a tad relieved for his lack of conversation. There seemed to be something about Christmas that made folks latch onto older times, and Steve recognized a "classic" Christmas song on the radio at least once every hour or so. When the clerk looks up at Steve from behind his spectacles, the tune stops. "Would you like this gift wrapped?"

"Hm?" Steve blinks at him, his attention refocusing at once. "Actually, yeah, that'd be really swell if you could."

The clerk smiles, his own green eyes reflecting back into Steve's in a knowing way. "This for a special someone?"

"First date, actually."

"First date and you're already buying her earrings?"The clerk takes the bill from Steve's hand with a flourish before bringing out change from the rusty register. "Best watch your wallet, pal."

The way that clerk says that suddenly makes Steve unsure all over again. He glances at the earrings and back at the door. "Do…you think that's too…ah…strong?"

The last thing Rogers ever wants to do is creep the poor girl out, but the clerk's eyes glow humorously at him. "And you should also have more confidence. These are cute—how could someone possibly be over-baring when  _Disney_  is slapped all over it? Walt was a genius for knowing what would sell—and more importantly, what women would buy."

"Excuse me?" Steve quirks at the clerk's sudden use of a man's name. "Who?"

The clerk looks heavily at Steve for a moment, lips firming up in a bout of confusion.

"Walt." The clerk emphasis slowly. "Disney." He points hard at the table behind Steve.

Turning, Steve is nearly knocked clean over by the cover of a book that's set in black and white. It looks just like any photo he'd see back in—he reels in that thought— _Walt Disney: The Triumph of American Imagination_ , the book reads back to him. Slowly, Steve turns back around to stare sheepishly at the clerk, who has already gotten the Minnie Mouse earrings beautifully wrapped in a package of simple silver with a gold ribbon. Steve's mind churns for something to say.

"You—uh, be careful out there, alright pal?" The clerk articulated awkwardly.

Steve nods again as he receives the coins from the clerk's hand, careful that their fingers don't touch.

The owl-eyed clerk has a strange stare that reminds Steve of Colonel Chester Phillips's disapproval, and it follows him long after he's left the store. Steve clears his throat loudly, picks up the parcel, and is out the door without another word.

* * *

_Another time - another place_   
_Our temperature would climb_   
_There'd be a long embrace!_   
_We'd do another dance,_   
_It'd be another play._   
_Looking for romance?_   
_Come back another day_   
_Another day!_

Roger, "Another Day",  _RENT_

* * *

**AN:**  There seemed to be a bit of confusion between if this chapter is commenting on Steve not knowing who Walt Disney is, or if he does not know Disney at all. Please pardon me for not conveying this idea properly, as it was pointed out recently. (6/16). As seen in chapter previously, Steve does indeed know Disney. However, *my* particular idea of Steve is this: He knows the company's name of Disney, and it's creator's name: Disney. The famous last name. It is true that Disney was huge during the 40s. However, it is also during this time that Steve is soon shipped off to war, is punching Hitler in the face 200+ times, and generally is not getting a in-tune connection to civilian life. This chapter, I proposed, is built around the idea that in today's public: Most people in America do know Disney easily by his first name, as if we're almost on a "first name friend" status with the famously deceased fellow. However, as much as Steve knows his last name, he did not know Walter Disney is Disney's full name. I found this to hold cheekily true to myself: I often can recall the famous *last* names of actors and shows from the 50's backwards, but never usually the first name. Perhaps it's a subtle detail, but this break between more generalized knowledge shows that when Steve takes one step forward, it's soon to be two steps back.

In other news:

I just saw  _The Great Gatsb_ y last night. It was a imperfect yet genuine interpretation of what folks want Gatsby to be- and for that, I adored it. I'm a huge fan of all of Fitzgerald's (the author of the _The Great Gatsby_  novel) works, (I even share the same birthday as the guy, c:) So if anyone is thinkin' about not seeing in, it's completely worth your money. My friends and I dressed up as 1920 Flapper gals and classy gentlemen, and it was a gas! As we walked into the theater folks already sitting down started applauding for us. It really was a blast- so it just goes to show ya'all- stepping out of your comfort zone and really getting under the skin of another era is so refreshing. Anyhow- Kay out! Maybe leave a review so I can know if it's going okay, or down the tubes?


	10. Coney Island Cyclone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ending of "The First Date", And wow, take about going out with a bang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks again to Noctemus!

Chapter 10: Coney Island Cyclone

**AN** : Thanks again. After this first date is over I can work on the dramas and the feels-but don't worry. Their closeness can only grow from here. At some cost, I'd imagine. And oops- looks like there's some rocky business ahead. Want to find out what it is? Well, read on to find out!

* * *

What was it about that night?

Connection- In an isolating age?

For once the shadows gave way to light...

* * *

"There it is, the Spinning Cyclone." Steve announces as they get halfway to the dock. Beside him, Beth looks on in wonder. The pier is breathtaking. There's wraps of holly leaves, butches of bright crimson  _poinsettias,_ the wafting smell of hot dogs and hot cakes and other goodies all through the air. From across the way a muscular carnie man waves on with a brilliantly pink shade of cotton candy.

"Oh! Do you mind if we play some of the little carnivals games before the Cyclone? I swear, I haven't been down here since I was a kid."

Steve smiles, but his eyes remain suspicious over the rough looking mustached Italian man who's hailing them over to toss rings. "I hear ya. Sure, that sounds great. Besides, I think I know how to undermine their tricks this time 'round."

"Do you now?" Beth's voice changed into an octave of amusement. Steve cracked his fingers in front of him, accepting the challenge.

"I used to be a bit of a weakling when I was a kid. Pretty sickly, honestly. But now I've got a score to settle."

"Alright, well let's see that in action, Solider Steve."

Blushing, Steve takes a turn at the "Strong Man" hammer smash. In one good swing Steve manages to bounce the weight to the bell 15 times (Beth counts with her hand clasped over her mouth and by jumping up and down herself in sheer disbelief)—and then, like a tiny rocket, both weight and bell collided together, rattled through the air and into the black silvery water. The carnie gives Steve the evil eye, and quickly Beth and he make off for the next game, trying to hold back their laughter.

" _Weakling?_ I don't believe that for a second."

"I'm tellin' ya, it's the honest to God truth!"

"You just broke that man's spirit  _15_  times, Steve! 15 times!"

Steve sheepishly waves off the idea.  _Well his great grandfather broke my spirit nearly 5 times that amount. What goes around, comes around._

"Okay, alright, I'll tell you what: you play the rest of the games, and I'll just watch. But if there's pulling anything funny on you, I'm stepping in."

"And by 'stepping in' you really mean you'll make them cry in shame from your amazing strength?"

"You're great at reading my subtext, Beth."

The next game is a get up of tossing a baseball to knock over a tower of glass bottles. Beth seems almost joyful that the game still exists. Steve believes her for certain now when she was raised on baseball. She grips the ball like a bro, hand perfectly lined to throw a  _slider_  pitch of all choices. She leans her arm back to throw, but stops when she notices Steve's patronizing look.

"I know the score from even back then, don't you worry. But I think I got 'em beat this time."

She throws the ball with a burst of strength, but it crushes harshly against the bottles and slides down it.

The carnie gives her an up and down look that makes Steve feel surprisingly antsy.

"Darlin', I guess you're the reason why they call it a  _slider_ , hahaha!" The carnie's voice is deep and throaty as Beth huffs in response at him, but keeps her good humor.

"Again," She demands. The ball is tossed back.

Her eyes glide over to Steve, and a strange pulse shoots through his spine like she'd just called his name. Walking over, Steve eyes what her plan is. Beth smiles smally at him, and motions for him to help out, and soon Steve finds himself standing behind her, his right arm gentle at he holds her hand that curled around the ball. His other is carefully behind his own back, less he get the nerve to touch her waist.

"One," Steve's breath is hot against her ear. "Two," He leans their arms back, and—"Three!"

Faster than anything, they're both jerked forward, (Steve's careful to hold Beth in place and keep her arm in mint condition) and the glass bottles  _smash_ inwardly all at once like a bowler's strike, cascading into each other in a sharp ribbon-like waterfall of shards. In his arms, Steve can feel Beth holding in her chortling laughter. Without bothering for a prize, Beth tugs on his sleeve to run, clutching the fabric.

"The Cyclone!" She calls, "Hurry!"

Steve chases breathlessly after her, laughing more than he has in 70 years.

At the gate to board the ride, they stop to catch their breath. Beth is blown away by how far Steve can run, and yet only need a few gasps of air to be right as rain. Army training most of intensified 10 fold since her brother joined. Her hair twisted around her neck, running down her coat.

"When's—the last time—you rode it?" her thumb jerks to the ride.

It's been over decades and decades, a full bodily change and war, but The Cyclone still makes Steve's stomach queasy just to look at it.

"Oh man, it's been such a long time. When I was with my best friend, a long time ago." The laughter slowly drains from Steve's voice as they wait for Beth to breath normally again.

"Your best friend?"

"Yeah, Bucky," Steve's voice slows, dripping into a somber tone. "His full name was James Barnes." Steve leaned against the railing, staring down into the sea. "I'd known him since I was five."

"What's he like?"

"A troublemaker." Steve wanted to laugh, but he found it to empty to even try. "But he was brave, and kind—if he was here right now, he's be talking you up a storm. He had a way with women. You'd probably like him a whole lot. Everyone did."

Beth tried to smile, but the weight of Steve's words held it down, and she could only look on.

"I don't doubt his abilities, but you're pretty unforgettable yourself, you know."

Steve fought the urge to shrug like he had at Tony over something that was possibly true, possibly not.

Steve settled for a quiet "Thank you."

She approached the railing herself, her blonde hair whisking in the wind beneath the dangle of Christmas lights. The bulbs casted little bright spots in the water that blended and bowed with the crash of the waves, distorting the blackness of the bay. She let the moment wash over for what seemed like a long time.

"If you don't mind me asking, where is he now?"

"He—he was..."  _Lost because of me._  "KIA."

Their shoulders touched as she carefully settles in beside him, each pair of blue eyes misty as the shoreline that crashed and swayed beneath them. Beth noticed how tight Steve's hands were along the rust of the grey-green rail, and slowly, without daring to make eye contact, and laid her hand over top of his. Steve's own crystal eyes widened briefly, shocked by a sudden warmth. He looked at their hands and he prayed that his weren't shaking.

"I'm…I'm so sorry. Um," She fumbled briefly, her lips wind-chapped red, trying to find the right word, or the right timing. A soft silence passed where nothing came from either of them. Eventually, Beth tried to press forward.

"If you don't mind me asking again," Beth's voice was respectful, yet hoarse over the breeze. "Was it Iraq or Afghanistan?"

Steve blinked, his mind turning for a moment of confusion before he realized that this was the moment where he had to stop pretending this was 1938. This was 2013. This was reality.

_Wake up_ , a voice whispered coldly to him.

Carefully Steve's thumb traced across the bottom of Beth's palm, feeling the soothingly warm, yet worn skin that was equally soft and equally tough to his own, possibly from a time of working as a waitress, no doubt. Self-consciously Beth shuffled beside him, but she couldn't bring herself to shyly pull away like she wanted. She was stunned; the way his eyes were taking in their paired hands was…so…

"Honestly," Steve's timbre voice dropped low and soft. "It's pretty recent, and yet." He paused again, and Beth watched his adam's apple bob sentimentally. His eyes were at the sea again, passive and distant. "It feels like a thousand years ago."

Beth's eyes felt heavy, overcome with weakness of just watching him, the blue of his eyes, blond of his hair, pale of his skin, fading like the clouds passing overhead, perpetually in motion, imploding, directionless.

She often felt that way as well, engulfed by the sky, cast out by the sea. Blue, upon blue, upon blue in their eyes, reflected out only into the colour of sadness.

"Steve, I'm so sorry," She shook her head slowly, the long tendrils of her blonde hair shifting gently against his shoulder, and she wanted to press herself into him, to stop him from—from disappearing again out to sea, but she couldn't. She just couldn't break that barrier so quickly. "I know that's probably all you hear anyone say, and I'm sure that…that means nothing to you."

She gripped his hand tightly for a moment, squeezing some of her will into his hand before she carefully pulled away, but suddenly Steve stopped her by grasping her free hand with his own. She blinked in surprise almost as much as Steve did, and there they stood on that dock in December, held together by the impulse that Steve Rogers finally allowed to move from within himself into physicality. They both stared at their hands again, and it was Beth's turn to trace her fingers across his knuckles, feeling the chasm that seemed to exist between each finger, each bone tough and lean.

"No," Steve began softly, his breath showing in the chilly swirls of the air. "No. Thank you, Beth, really." The blue of his eyes seemed sad and lonely, but something seemed to stir within their depths, and it made Beth smile against all the pain she suddenly carried in her chest. "You'd be surprised how much no one pays attention to…" He cut off again, his jaw tight.

"It's okay. I'm not going to lie to you Steve, I've been fortunate enough to have never lost anyone. But, I've seen some kind of suffering." Beth replied hastily, as if now the words were spilling out of her in white clustered patches of tangled emotion. "I mean, I see it too. People who aren't directly affected by such a tragedy, but I see it still. All the time at my job, at my apartment, in my nightmares. All those people? During the attack—I just." She throat felt pinhole tight, and she struggled to not gasp for air.

She pulled her hands away from Steve swiftly, curling her shoulders in vainly withheld embarrassment. "I've never been to war, but I  _felt_ like I was going to die that day. And, and I—I think I  _watched_  people die that day—and now I see what's left—day in and day out, I see people struggling for reason and to make sense of what they've lost." She looked Steve fully in the eye. "Of  _who_ they've lost, and I always think: 'Why me?' Or, I think that it's  _only_  me."

Beth's chest rattled as she took in a deep breath, eyes searching Steve's somber expression for any type of rebuttling, but she only found that he was listening. Listening like no one else ever seemed too. "But," She faintly continued, her blue eyes brilliant and direct into Steve's. "I see people that I serve at the café, and I look them in the eye and  _I feel their pain,_ and I  _can't_  forget. Every day, I am reminded that I'm not alone."

Steve paled for a moment, and Beth felt a thin layer of sweat line her palms as the silence pressed between them. Something dark passed over Steve as he considered her words. Something shadowy and it made him shiver.

_Alone. A customer, all alone. Is that what this is? Was this all…out of pity? Is that what she saw when she looked at me? Is that…why?_  
  
"Is…is that why you asked me out?" Steve's voice came out nearly empty. "You think I'm some kind of sympathetic nutcase lookin' for compassion?"

_"What?"_  Beth's eyes widened. His question was like a slap to the face after all she had confessed. "No! Of course not!" She shook her head fiercely, her eyes bright. Suddenly she stepped forward, nearly wanting to stand on her tip-toes to meet the blondsoldiereye to eye. "I asked you out because I felt something towards you—that—that—" Beth felt hot tears stick to the corner of her eyes and she felt stupid all over again. "That maybe you lost something in that attack too! I look at you and I see someone that's maybe just as lost as I am."

Steve's mouth opened to reply but no noise came. He tried again. Again. Finally: "Beth, I—"

But by then it was too late. She could see it all in his eyes though. He didn't  _believe_  her.

"This was a mistake." She quipped icily, her rage and her despair bringing a quiver to her voice as instantly the thought of going back home to her cold apartment rushed to her. To cry herself to sleep over the  _ache_  the rang through her chest like funeral bells; bells that shook New York's memorial services that reminded her that she survived to go back out into the world and suffer all over again. _She_  was the mistake. She was useless—to her brother, her parents, those wounded by the Battle. She couldn't help anyone. What could she give? Was it really pity she was giving after all? Couldn't anyone else see that she just wanted to give compassion—to share—to share in—something? Maybe she couldn't be a hero like the Avenger that saved her life, like her secret idol that was Captain America, but she had to do something, right? Was it so wrong of her to try?

She just wanted a connection.

Beth's teeth clenched as she turned on her heel, marching away, not trusting herself to look back because she's never told anyone that before, not a single friend, nor her parents, or the police or her pillow her greatest fear like that, so quickly and numbly and  _stupidly_ —and knows she'd just burst into tears and  _she'd_  be the nutcase.

The distance along the dock stretched further and further between them as she left, a woman shaped flurry of soft coat buttons and rippling yellow ribbons that were tattered and discolored in the wind. The wind pushed back at her but she kept on moving, her face tight with frustration.

When this wind hit Steve, it just damn near knocked him into the freezing Atlantic Ocean, and, had he been less than a genetically alerted super solider, he'd gladly let himself drown there. A pair of eyes were struggling to open in the back of his mind that made his head ache and his teeth grind, but he forced them down.

_Wake up_ , the voice said, louder.

He put a boot forward and began to chase after his future.

"Wait!" He called out to her, just as he had in the café which seemed so long ago, and suddenly he had caught up to her fast paced footsteps uncannily quickly, their shoe prints echoing in the snow behind them, intertwining. He reached out fast—fingertips barely touching the fall of her hand, and the heat from her body nearly  _burned_  him from the inside out in shame. "Wait, wait, please! _Please_  wait!"

"I'm—I'm the lousiest date ever. I know that, I understand, and you have every single right to walk away right now. I promise I won't follow, and you won't see my face ever again." Steve confessed to her back, his chest heaving, not from exertion, but from the anxiety that had been eating him alive for nearly four months now.  _Just like I told Peg's friend on the phone_ ,  _he'd never hear my voice again_ , Steve allowed a whip of depression to chill through him, hard and fast in its pain, and then he pushed it back together again.  _I'd disappear, believe me, if I only knew how._

Disappear? What are you doing? Wake up, wake up!

The voice practically hissed at him, and Steve swallowed hard, thinking, but it continued:

_Say it. Say it even though it hurts. You don't have to tell her everything. But you have to give her something of yourself._   _She gave a piece of her to you, and she's practically a stranger._  That same voice whispered inside of him.

_So who are you, Rogers? What can you give beyond the mask?_

"I'm—I—just—But…thank you," He decided. "I think I needed a dose of reality—because I—I often I find myself thinking that I'm not just lost; I'm lonely, pathetic and useless. But, my God," Steve slowed down his speech, words tumbling and wrapping together in their excited passion. "But if someone like you—" He slid his fingers into between the spaces of hers and nervously pulled her closer, closing the distance so that they stood only a foot apart. "—could look at me and—and see  _passed_  that—could see…that there's something more beyond that, well, I'd be a complete fool to watch you walk away right now."

He then dropped her hand, remembering himself, and he flushed nearly as red as his sweater. ****  
  
"But I'll let you." He added dryly, stepping back, allowing her space.

She stopped. Slowly, Beth turned to look at him, the blonde swirls of her hair plastered and damp along her cheeks while she stood there, shaking in her boots, bewildered, and her hand feeling strangely jittery from where he had touched her.

"I didn't mean to offend you, Steve. And I didn't mean to drop some over-dramatic bombshell on you, either," Beth blushed as well, glancing away offhandedly. "It's just…I haven't had this much fun in such a long time, and laughed, and talked and just…yeah. Talked. And I guess I just let myself get carried away. I think I say really stupid things sometimes that normal people never would."

"Well, from what I've found these 'normal' people walk around and pretend like the earth wasn't just invalided by aliens a few months ago—so, I'm glad. Please, don't be like them."

She smiled softly, bringing up a gloved hand to discreetly wipe a frozen trail of moister from her face. "You too." She added simply.

He seemed to grimace at that. "This may sound really cheesy of me to even bother saying trying this but: could we start over? Er, maybe?"

Beth's smile became bigger, and she glanced at her own boots, feeling silly, considering.

"Okay." She added chipperly, after a moment of watching the man before her look more and more concerned. "But only if I introduce myself properly this time. I'll—just lay everything across the table for you to see, so we can both run in the opposite directions if we want. You can jump into the ocean and I'll ride the Cyclone till I die."

Instantly the soldier's memories exploded like a firework in his mind, and Bucky Barnes was before him—his best friend, and they were just dumb kids sneaking onto the Cyclone one night—but soon the image faded to pitch, and it was soldier Barnes, and Captain America, standing side by side, overlooking a mountain crevasse, waiting for a train that would change everything between them.

_"Remember when I made you ride the Cyclone at Coney Island?_ " Bucky's dark eyes strained to look at Steve over the ice in the wind, and the pulling maw of the pit below.

" _Yeah, and I threw up?"_  Steve answered, the memory all but unforgotten like the taste of vomit that would come up later that night after he'd try and drink dry an entire destroyed bar to forget about this moment, and any second, he'd ever shared with his best friend.

The black scalp of Bucky's messy hair shook back and forth, his voice tight in awe. " _This isn't payback, is it?"_

Steve smiled then, perhaps for the last time in 1943.  _"Now why would I do that?"_

Steve's smile slowly made itself way across his lips. "Alright." He took a step forward, and extended his hand formally _. Give just a bit._ He reminded himself _._   _Anything._  "Ma'am, my name is Steve Rogers, and I'm absolutely awful when it comes to talking to women."

Beth couldn't help it. She laughed. "Hullo Steve. I'm Beth Ore, and I believe I'm slightly neurotic with stress issues."

Steve smirked at her, and mustered up his best impression of the legendary lady killer that was his best friend. "Well, Beth, if I may be so frank. Would you care to get lost with me tonight?"

Her eyes glittered mischievously. "Pretty smooth line for someone who's terrible at talking to women."

Steve shook his head, the exhale from his nostrils misty and fading behind him, like her words were a blow to the face. "I learned that one a long time ago, but I'm glad it's not in bad taste."  _Bucky, buddy, if you could only see me now. What would you say?_  
  
Beth walked closer, keeping her fingers out of reach and just watching the way Steve padded carefully alongside her, like she was a ribbon-and-buttoned-up fawn he was meant to frighten.

"No." She glanced at him, scrutinizing the stylized cut of his hair, the nervous brush of his lashes when he blinked, and decided that she liked what she saw, as well as what she felt. "Not in bad taste at all."

Steve swallowed dryly at her, unsure of what was to come of this.

_You'd tell me I'm a stupid wreck._

* * *

_For once I didn't disengage.  
_  
\- "What you Own", Roger, Mark, _RENT_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...hey there to anyone reading! I am SO very sorry for, um, not updating in a long while. But now I am! Hooray! If anyone wants to leave a kudos, a review, a comment, you'd make my freakin' life. Otherwise, stay tuned for more in the next few days! Thanks again for enjoying!


	11. Beth's Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: What's this? An update already? Inconceivable! But really, thank you SO very much for the thoughtful reviews. So what happened after Beth and Steve's first date? Did more happen? And furthermore, what's her best friend's reaction? Oh boy. Girl sure seems like trouble. Fun trouble.

Chapter 11: Beth's Morning

* * *

My friends are waiting -

* * *

All around Beth, the world seemed to be spinning. Colours melted and merged, faces blurred in and out—metallic horses with clothy saddles laced with bells danced along the outside of her, wispy coils of manes that were whirling and splintering faster and faster. They lashed at her cheeks, raining down lightly, but were getting progressively harder. Soon the hairs were pelting her arms, leaving long stinging gashes. From under her skirt the floor was rumbling, throaty like thunder. A tight earthy mist seemed to be lingering through the air—and she was laughing. Laughing at it  _all_. Laughing harder than it seemed she ever had in years, and it made her chest hurt. To stop the pelting from the closing in ponies, she wrapped her arms around herself, so tightly that she could feel the bone of her ribs. And she couldn't stop laughing. But it hurt. Each peal left an ache in her throat, rattling her lungs. There was never enough air—and it hurt. Everything hurt. She wanted to scream. To scream for someone to stop. This ride wasn't fun anymore. She wanted off.  _She wanted off._

And then, as if sadistically granting her wish, an explosion ripped across the cloudy raging sky. She was falling. It had torn open the eye socket of the blue atmosphere to gush out in waves of black. An army of black. Black. Black and red. Raining down, hitting her in thick drops of warm liquid. Beth closed her eyes, her laugher turning into terrified sobs. The air ripped and cracked through her ears, and the horses below seemed to be screaming for her, groaning in loud churning rows of some poor animal being slowly ripped in two. The horses of her childhood were dying all around her.

Soaked in the sticky warmth, Beth forced herself to look up into that hole that seemed to open up into nothing, stretching on forever and forever. It was like she was being sucked up into it. She twisted, pulled, screamed but only the horses answered her. She was flying further and further away from them until they looked like a crowd of dying people, staring up at the sky, right back into Beth's eyes.

_Help me_ , she wanted to cry.

_Save me_ , she wanted to plead.

But she could only look on into the inky blackness, swallowed up like the little blue marble of the earth would be in a very large game of fate.

No one was coming.

She turned one last time to look down—one final time before she would be gone from everything.

And she recognized someone in the crowd, beyond the panic and the screaming of colts.

_Steve._

He was perfectly calm, staring back at her with his blue eyes as pale as the sky. Slowly, he reached out his hand up above his head.

For her.

She tried. She reached out her arm, fingers stretching back. She wanted to go back. She didn't want to disappear. She didn't want to die. She stretched, wiggled and cried but she couldn't touch him. As much as she wanted him, she couldn't  _reach._

Suddenly, Steve's hand wasn't open for hers anymore. Something was in it. Something that shimmered and its light hurt her eyes. She struggled to keep them open, but it burned straight back into her skull, and it  _hurt_ ,  _everything hurt_  and suddenly, she was plummeting back to the earth.  _And she was going to die. And she was going to die. And she was going to—_  
  
Beth woke up in a sweat, sheets tangled around her legs and arms like a boa constrictor made of suffocating hot. Quickly she unwrapped herself, sprinting to her bathroom before she was sick.

Again.

She sank against the cool round lip of the toilet, careful to make sure that the pads of her feet wouldn't slip on the cold linoleum floor. The bath along the wall was a pale blue; the wallpaper printed in sea shells of periwinkle purple and luscious light green. The sink, shower head, and shower curtain was decorated with baby turtles. It struck her just now how hilarious it was that she had never seen the ocean. Just movies and cartoons.

Everything she promised herself that was soothing from her childhood meant nothing as she vomited. No colour therapy worked. No amount of shades or animals or talking seemed to do anything but prolong just one more hour before another anxiety attack.

God, she just wanted this to  _stop._

When she was finished she splashed the icy chill of water from her sink, pasting the messy curls of blonde hair to her cheeks. Her eyes were puffy, her nails clenched. Her rib cage festered inside her, lips nearly blue. She coughed again, leaning her forehead against the mirror. This was getting ridiculous. She'd have to go see a therapist soon, or  _something._  What if she'd done this with someone around? Beth sucked in a breath, barely able to play with the idea of holding herself together with someone watching.

She knocked her head against the smooth cool glass.  _You're such a freak. That someone might've been_ Steve. _  
_  
Late last night—(or, really, it was more like one o'clock in the morning) Steve had walked her back to her apartment. As they stood just outside the stone stoop that led to her dark green door, Beth wondered about taking the date further. She quickly threw the thought out—as she instantly feared that it would be taken a thousand ways than what she really wanted. It had been a while since she had tried dating again, but anytime it got beyond her door step she'd be submitted for the awkward: one night stand, or not to one night stand? (She knew she'd never have the nerve to call anyone she instantly slept with on the first date back. Like, ever.) (Hint: for any of the scumbags she actually attempted to date, the answer to that age old question was always _to one night stand_.) Beth wasn't too stuck up about kissing on the first date—but she definitely didn't put out just like that. She was lonely, sure, but the end of those dates often led to the Beth staring nervously as she'd squeakily explain that she really  _did_  mean  _company and coffee, now please put your shirt back on_.

She shook her head at herself, hair twirling a soft white-yellow in the dim Christmas glow of her holly-wreath, squat and round, which was eyeing the pair like a weary chaperone. Why did she put up with such losers before? She sighed. She knew exactly why. And it wasn't healthy. Or fair to any guy she was desperate enough to cling to. After the attack, it was more that she just didn't like being in the dark alone—a sure fire great opening line to tell a potential date that  _Sure, we can lay down and cuddle and I can finally sleep, but I've got pepper spray in my undies drawer, so help me God._

Steve's blue eyes regarded Beth's headshake with a sudden panic stricken alarm. Was he being some creep by lingering outside of her flat for too long?

"I had a great time tonight," Steve said, grasping for a proper way to leave before he made it worse.

He thought about leaning up against the railing around them, thin black bars that pointed upwards into spear points, but decided against it. He'd probably prick himself on trying to be smooth. "Thank you very much for asking me out." He chuckled at his phrase. "I wouldn't never guessed that gals do that kinda thing. I guess I'm sort've old fashioned in the sense that I always thought it was all on the man."

Beth's smirk parted again, coldsnap red. "I can't even manage how much pressure that must lay on the male species."

"Exactly. It's a little relieving to tell you the truth. I probably would've never had the nerve to ask ya." Steve admitted sheepishly. "Or well, it would've taken me three times as long."

"Better late than never, as I hear it said."

Steve's smile seemed to soften. "Yeah. Very much so."

He glanced at his wrist watch, wanting to cringe once more. Beth knew that look already. She'd seen it about ten times since midnight rolled around.

"Stop apologizing for keeping me out so late! It's okay!" She grasped his own wrist, pulling his arm down. She started to laugh. "You're incorrigible!"

"But it's just so  _late_. I had no idea it had gotten so  _late_. And it's freezing—and you're probably sick of me following ya around and—" Steve defended, trying not to let his 'motherhen' side show but that was a losing battle from the start.

But really, he was pretty upset with himself for not being more conscious. No proper gentleman escorts his ladyfriend home past midnight. Ever. It's a rule. He swears by it! Well, unless… well they're foolin' around. And he supposes that they were. Without touching too much, and—God, what if the other Avengers were waiting for him?

"And you've told me this like, nine other times." Beth giggled. Steve sighed out deeply, the fall of his shoulders overtaking the light for a moment, and the shadows hid his face. A strange chill ran up Beth's spine when she looked at his covered face. Déjà vu for some reason. Weird.

"I'm sorry, you're right."

She let her fingers continue to cradle his wrist, and she squeezed playfully. "It's nice to know you care. And that chivalry isn't dead."

They stared at each other again, locked like that.

For a second time that night, Beth fought with her mind. She was almost depressed over the fact that she was going entered inside alone—without him. He didn't suggest going inside—not even to get warm after the freezing hike, or for coffee—or anything. Not even a hint. It was like he was oblivious to the notion of it. But she knew she couldn't blame her selfishness on him, because well, to be fair, Beth wasn't even sure now that she made it clear that she wanted Steve to come inside anyhow. The date was incredible, but she just knew she'd be freaking out over if she'd thought to clean the living room enough, or if the bathroom wasn't too….childlike.

Reluctant, Steve had to pull away. "How about I call you tomorrow?" He then paused, a chuckle of a whisper on the cold wind escaping passed Beth's ears like a moth's flying rustle. "I mean, later today?"

_Call._  Beth's heart pounded and sunk all at once. She'd heard that line before—but there was something about the nervous way in which Steve asked it to her that made her feel as if he wasn't pulling her leg. He seemed worried at the idea, that was clear, but it seemed so…genuine.

"Please do, soldier Steve." She rose up her arms, faking an upward stretch which made Steve extremely aware of how her body must be moving under the thick fabric of her jacket, and he glanced away. She yawned into it, and a small hand covered her mouth. "Oh—I'm sorry, um, how about I turn my rudeness into a hug?"

Steve chuckled again, grateful that his blush was hidden by the night fall. He stepped forward to embrace her, instantly taken back by how nice it was so hold someone so close in his arms. He tightened his hold, even so lightly, just to make it last longer. He wanted it to be like a squeeze so that Beth would maybe know that he appreciated her for so much more than he could possibly ever say to her—or to anyone. He really liked how she felt so close to him. Warm, dense—not too fragile—and God, she smelled  _amazing_. Was it possible for someone to smell that good? Her perfume must've wafted off hours ago—but Steve was so pleased that his super sense of smell kept it around.

The hug was over too soon, and a familiar ache creaked into both their hearts.

"I really hope to see you soon, Steve."

The super soldier nearly shivered over how she said his name, just his name, once more. Just for him.

"You too, Beth."

From the dim light cascading over her bedroom, a muffled chime trilled into the bathroom. Instantly, Beth felt her heart clench. Someone was calling her. Quickly, she smoothed back her hair and darted into her bed, flipping overly stuffed pillows and blankets until her hand smacked something hard.

"Hullo?" She had the receiver so close to her ear it stung.

_"So, you gonna spill, or do I have to come over to_   _tip you myself?"_

Hearing her best friend's snarky voice made Beth feel instantly better.

"Ronda, don't you know me at all? Of course I'll spill!"

_"Does he have a nice ass?"_

Beth blew air from her nostrils in a puff of dismay. "Is that your top priority in a guy?"

_"Shouldn't that be everyone's top priority in anyone?"_

"Ronda, you're insane."

_"And you're from where again? Kansas?"_

"Oklahoma?"

_"So what, you're tellin' me that Aunty Em isn't your aunt? You lied to me!"_

"Ron," Beth snorted, trying not to feel cheered up. "You're still crazy."

_"Well, you don't see me insult your flaws either, Miss Oklahoma. You can't help that you're from ass-backwards nowhere."_

"Actually, you do that a lot."

_"I do not—!"_

"You did it just two days ago at work!" Beth jested back.  
 _  
_There was a pause, and then a snort. _"You know that's how I tell you that I love you, Princess Buttercup."_

"I hate that nickname. You're insufferable."

_"Nah, that's just friendship. Made of insults, ice cream, and telling your best friend about your hot date!"_

"New York isn't the best place to be, you know. What about San Francisco?"

_"You take that back!"_ Ronda slowly emphasized every word.

"Ronda—"Beth sighed, exasperated.

_"So,_ does _he?"_

That finally made Beth laugh scratchily. "I don't know!" She threw an arm above her hand to express this, as if Ronda was right in front of her. From her reflection in the mirror she wanted to crawl back into bed and never leave it. Her blonde hair was stuck everywhere, sweat everywhere, makeup still dragged in lines across her tearducts. She quickly shoved her hand back down. "I didn't look."

_"No worries,"_  She could hear the curl of delight in Ronda's voice.  _"I'll just have to look for you."_

Beth paused, biting her lower lip for effect. Ronda caught on fast.  _"What is it?"_  She synched.

"He said he'd call me today."

_"Really?"_  Ronda purred. Her tone suddenly darkened.  _"Oh no, you don't think he—"_  
  
"I wondered that too! But, Ron, he seems so sweet. Like he means it. I mean, I hope he does. I think he does." She told herself. "I did…mess up, though."

Ronda froze.  _"Girl, you didn't."_

"No!" Beth jerked the phone in surprise. "No, I—I didn't flip out." A pause. "Okay, maybe a little." She whispered.

_"And by 'a little' you actually mean?"_

Beth thought fast—deciding to skip the dramatics of their first sort've fight on the boardwalk. That was embarrassing enough—and God, who would believe something like that actually happened?

"He never seen 3-D before, and so I took him to that 3-D premier booth, right? And well, I… scared him."

The silence was palpable. Then, Ronda started to laugh—throaty and secretive.

" _Ronda,_  it really isn't funny! He turned white as a sheet! He…he mention that he just got back from military leave. I…I worry that I may have trigged something PTSD in him..."

This sobered Ronda up.  _"PTSD?"_  Her tone upturned sharply. " _Beth. You listen to me now. Now, I feel all the compassion for this guy, I really do. But you're my best friend first so…please, be careful."_

"Ronda, don't judge! He's perfectly controlled. Just…well, seeing him…like that. It reminded me of me."

_"I know Beth. I know, hun. I just…you hear things, you know? The world is even fucking crazier now. And I just can't protect you from everything. And PTSD is very,_ very _serious. Just, keep that in mind, okay?"_  
  
"Well," Beth's voice lowered into a sad whisper. "You know that I think I have something like that too. Do you think this is a bad match?" A hand flew to her throat. "Do you think I'll just upset him more?!"

Laughter answered the blonde. " _Oh no, you two perfect. Now you both can be neurotic together. I may just have to meet this guy. What did you say his name was again?"_

"Steve. Steve Rogers."

_"Well open up your door, the former date to a Mister soldier Steve Rogers. I'm here!"_  
  
Beth glanced around one last time, spiriting to flush the toilet before padding to her front door. It flew open to reveal the stark platinum fo-blonde—this time her hair was massively gelled up into short curls that ended in splits. Her eyebrows reminded captiously undyed, forever announcing to the world that the freshest coat she was sporting was indeed not her natural colour. Her face was round, nose pieced with a tiny red fax-ruby, lips always curved slightly out like she was perpetually disappointed in everything. Everything, it seemed, but seeing Beth. She jumped straight into a hug, pulling the smaller blonde to her with overwhelming strength. A purple long sleeve tee, and pre-ripped jeans cut at the knee bounded against Beth's bare legs.

A tickling sniff near Beth's neck made the blonde giggle and squirm away.

"You even  _smell_  like a man! I can't believe it. How long has it been since you've dated someone?"

Beth wanted to shrug, but simply shivered at the open door. The pause seemed to spark something in Ronda, however.

Ronda gave her an obvious once over, a dark brow inching upwards. A grin plastered to her face instantly. "Is he here?"

"What?" Beth's eyes narrowed in surprise.

She trusted an arm across Beth's doorway, pushing herself dramatically into her living room, neck snapping this way and that like a hottie homing missile. Which, more or less, Ronda was. "You're  _hiding_  him?"

Suddenly, it hit Beth like a smack to the back of the head. She leaned against the plump arm of her easy chair, a hand sagging through the sweat tangles of her yellow hair. "Oh—Ron, no."

Ronda continued in, slamming the door shut but grasping up Beth's arm under hers. She pulled the blonde girl towards the kitchen. "You sly dog! You  _totally_  got laid last night!"

"No—no, no,"

"Oh don't be so modest girl, you can  _tell_  me!"

"Ronda, it's not like that—"

"It sure looks like it," Ronda declared as she dragged her way into Beth's bedroom. Her eyes drained over the crazy state of Beth's queensized bed.

"It's not!" Beth finally yelped, pushing herself away from her friend's embrace. That got Ronda's attention quick. Beth's face flushed as she sighed. She pulled both her hands to cover her face, breathing.

"Whoa. Okay. Alright." Ronda's green eyes were cautious. She reached out a ways, lightly rubbing Beth's arm. "Nothing happened, I get it. I'm—I'm sorry." She ran her arm up Beth's shoulder, leaping it to her wrists to revel a watery blue eye. "You know I'm sorry." She emphasized, looking at Beth dead on.

"Well," Ronda edged out, worry lining every contorted alarm on her forehead. "What did happen, then?"

Beth simply pointed to the bathroom. Ronda didn't even have to wrinkle her nose to guess what that meant.

"Oh honey, again?" She pulled Beth against her side, sitting them both on the edge of the bed. "But didn't you have a good time? On the phone, you made it sound like a good time."

"It was a great time. I just…can't help what I dream."

Ronda's face seemed to shatter, her lips sucked in with fear. Slowly, she blew air out of her nose, rattling the ruby. "I know that it doesn't help, but it's not real, okay? What you dream isn't real, and nothing is going to hurt you." She laced an arm around Beth's shoulder. "Not while I'm around."

Beth sniffed, trying to stay in one piece for Ronda's sake. The white hair of Ronda's wooshed by as she suddenly place herself right in Beth's face.

"They think that Hulk guy is scary, huh? Well sister, they ain't see  _me_  angry yet."

Beth snickered. "He's a good guy, Ronda. You don't believe what they say about The Avengers, do you?"

Sighing in defeat at her attempt of humor, Ronda sat back down on the bed, wiggling the mattress. "No. Of course I don't believe that crap. They saved us. The entire city. Destruction happens at a price of money. Not a price of who should be to blame. Blame never helps anything."

The pair was silent for a moment in thought.

"You know what's really scary?" Ronda turned, elbowing Beth in the side lightly.

"What?"

"You were  _this_  close from Captain America." Ronda pitched her fingers close together into a tiny measure of space. "Isn't that crazy as hell?"

Beth flushed, a hand twisting her hair. "I don't try to think of it all that much, really."

Ronda felt around for Beth's hand, pulling it from her hair. "Arh—what I mean to say is, does that help, like, at all? Thinking about how they're out there to save us? How close he was to you? Any kind of comfort? Ringin' a bell, here?"

This time Beth gave a wimpy shrug. "Sure, sometimes. But…even The Avengers can't save me from myself."

Ronda leaned back, making it a point to take them both down so that they were lying across the messy comforter of Beth's bed. "Okay. So, dream about the Captain." She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. "I know you do."

Beth chuckled, pushing at Ronda's stomach to get some space. "Lay off!"

Ronda pushed back, tickling Beth's side. "Fine! You can borrow Iron Man then. I'll allow it."

Beth snorted, sending some of her blonde hair flying into her own eyes. "Ronda, he's totally taken. It's legit now! Don't you read  _Esquire_?  _Glamor?_   _People_ magazine? He's dating his secretary."

Ronda paused. "You read  _Esquire?_  Isn't that a bro magazine?"

Beth flushed, tossing a pillow at Ronda's face. "It's a good magazine—shut up!"

"And actually, she's the CEO now, gosh, Beth. Keep up." She winked at her. "But yeah, alright, so maybe I give into that main stream garbage that you read." She wrinkled her nose at the very idea. "But only for Tony. And it won't last though. I bet you anything."

Beth rolled her eyes at the ceiling. "You're an imaginary home wrecker, Ron."

"Just like mama raised me," She stuck out her tongue. "Okay, so I think it's time we go out for ice cream to celebrate me actually thinking you got freaky last night."

Beth shoved her aside gently, heading to her closet. "Sounds like a plan."

"And," Ronda added darkly, springing up from the bed with vigor. "I get to meet this dude soon."

Beth stuck her head out of the depths of her closet in a rush. "But he hasn't even called yet—"

"Soon he will! Very soon!"

"Ron—"

"It's going to happen. Don't fight it Princess."

Beth's sigh was audible from the closet.

_"Someone's_  gotta check out his ass for you!"

* * *

_You're cute when you blush-_   
_The more the merri - ho, ho, ho!_   
_And I do not take no!_

\- "You Okay Honey? (the Street)", Angel, Collins, RENT

 


	12. Steve's Confrontation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Thank you SO much you guys! I can't believe this story is nearly at 50 reviews. That's amazing to me. Thank you! Please enjoy! The reviews have LIFTED my soul so much. Thank you, each and every one of you. It means so much. Some of them are pretty lengthy as well, I just can't even you guys. Thank you for enjoying my romps with these two. And thank you all for giving Ronda and Beth a chance. Many mentioned how their conversation seemed very realistic, and I blushed so strongly at that kind of praise. I'm so glad that so many came away with such a feeling. That's the best compliment I've gotten towards writing fragile non-established character trait dialogue.
> 
> So Steve's returned home. Let's get the foreshadow ball rollin'.
> 
> note: I've also run out of appropriate RENT song lyrics that apply right now for the upcoming situations. Do forgive the change ups.

 

"And I can't go back,  
Moods that take me and erase me,  
And I'm painted black."

* * *

The dark maroon reflection shadowed Steve's ascent into Stark Tower, frequently teasing the corner of Steve's eye to glance backward to check that no one was actually following him. Thinking himself completely idiotic, he allowed only one glance behind himself while edging up the final stair towards Tony's elevator doors. The slowly dripping chunks of ice that were leaning off of the wide windows of the tall building answered him in a ghostly footfall. The icicles outside the silver doors absorbed the golden yellows, bright green and cool neon black that hummed from the city below it. As beautiful as they were, he didn't like looking at the shards of melting ice for too long. One angle made the water glisten and shimmer in explosions of bright colours when they touched the ground; they were miniature frozen fireworks that lit up Steve's walkways. The later angle made it look as if the ice flow were tears, the echo of their fate softly touching Steve's ears like a sob—breathless, scared, anticipating.

He took a deep breath, ignoring the sound, flexing his fingers. They were cold since he had left Beth's door, but not even the deepest of the snow fall, or the burningly cool metal of his motorcycle's handlebars seemed to damage the pulse of heat that simmered at the edges of his fingertips—like every squeeze that Beth pushed into his skin was reviving a tiny heart beat at the base of his thumb. But soon he noticed it getting faster, and faster, and  _faster_  with every forward step. He braced an arm against the pane of the side door, and leaned against it. His heart was beating so hard that he felt breathless when he finally knew he had to walk back through the Stark Tower doors. He never knew how to describe it. It was dark and heavy, that sat in the pit of his stomach and ached itself  _raw_.

Doors usually did it to him. Sometimes empty rooms. He felt the worse by going back to his room, but it wasn't just there he felt uncomfortable. He didn't like sitting around in Stark Tower alone. He took him a month to realise that about himself, but it was the hardest thing to admit. The first sense of dissertating change. He didn't like being alone in the most complicated way he had ever known.

When he first woke up, when S.H.I.E.L.D. had taken him back to the hospital base and explained all that happened, he was told that his body would be "off" for a while. That he'd have to be careful about simple things—if there were too many people in the room, or if a sound was too loud. And for a while, everything  _was_  way too loud. He could hear them whispering about him through the walls as if they were  _stage shouting_. Knew that they had watched him while he slept. Knew that they watched him the whole time through. Temperature was tricky as well. His nerves were mixed. Confused as he was from being over simulated or too numb to realise he was hurting himself. He'd reach for a cold drink and he was shocked at just how freezing cold it was (and how he hated cold. He  _despised_  cold.). Even the pads of his feet were too sensitive for a while against moving too far—socks or no. He'd burn himself without realizing it, or nearly get himself twisted in the sterile shower curtains when the water reached beyond a lukewarm level—it felt searing hot to his back. But even then, those were bodily ticks that faded over time.

He prayed that he was the same person that went under as when he woke up. That, if everything in the universe shifted, at least he'd remain the same to himself. But keeping that idea was exhausting because it unnervingly was not true.

He was changing for the worse. He knew he was depressed and numb and raw at the seams for himself as a person. He rejected any inkling of friendship as much as he found he craved it. But it was a selfish kind of addiction. A complication. He didn't want friends. He didn't really want someone to talk to. He didn't really want a hug or a smile. He just wanted to be surrounded by people that had purpose and lives so that waking up every morning didn't feel so painful. People went on. Life went on, even if the window that Steve was watching from, frozen, never did.

Because once you wake up and find that everyone you ever loved is dead, your body never trusts itself again to think that they're safe. You could blink and they're gone. You can't get close to someone without the unfailing idea that they'll never leave you. And so he went on. Craving people, craving friendship—and sulking away at the slightest attempt at kindness towards him.

There were some things, however, that Steve could not escape from. Mainly, S.H.I.E.L.D. And, with that, General Fury. Fury insisted that Steve keep active. Insisted that he force a relationship with the rest of The Avengers. Insisted that Tony take in the recluse from his apartment, to both of their great objections. Fury was just about as insistent in everything as much as Steve was entirely passive—his only defense towards the process. Sure, he'd take the order, swallow it down like sourest of cough syrup, but he wouldn't feel it. If Steve could have his way, he would never feel anything again.

The Avengers changed that, however.

Steve didn't want to admit the thin tendrils of attachment that he was feeling towards keeping a team safe. It started protocol. Lead, take charge, report damage. But when Clint took a shard of glass to the face, when his blood is pouring across Steve's closed fist, the pressure changes. You can't play with knifes and not feel the weight of what you're holding. He could avoid getting cut, but the weapon is still in your hand. And so it goes on. He realized that Loki had some kind of disturbing logic to it all.

They were all lost in some ways. But, to Steve's dismay or not, they were finding wounds in each other.

The whole notion of actively seeking companionship was new to Steve. He knew he was a quiet kinda guy. He knew that when he wanted someone to talk to,  _back then_ , he'd find Bucky or some kindly fella at the drugstore to chat to. But he enjoyed books, radio, drawing, and hating it when someone was looking over his shoulder while he'd attempt to do so.

And, hoping against hope, Steve vaguely wondered if someone was  _really_  waiting for him. His knuckles curled. He'd spent so much time just waiting around to wake up again. Waiting around to disappear, or maybe just run to the farthest edge of the world and jump off of it. But he had…frie—teammates now. He had…something close to a home. A place where people expected him to show up. And, with that, came where his teammates were curious to where he would be.

The whole night it had been eating tiny shards into the niches of his brain that Tony would appear, out of the blue, loud and jerkish and ostentatious as ever, and somehow ruin his date, but he didn't. He swore that perhaps around every corner Natasha was waiting, her emerald eyes careful and glittering, but she wasn't. Steve hated feeling all the contusions he did for his team. He cared for them, he truly did, but it was hard to keep it simple—because life had thrown him the biggest curve ball of existence, and he had to face the fact that he wasn't going to wake up again. He had to face moving forward. He had to face it. He cared for his team. Now it was hitting him. Now.

He… liked it when Natasha made a point to actually track him now—she broke into his apartment of all gestures. He enjoyed it when Clint would invite him to hang around on the living room couch and Steve would educate himself through Clint's rambles about what recent culture was "trash" and what sports teams were top dog and actually answer Steve's media questions without guile. Although at first he shielded away, he understood Thor's compassion towards feeling like he was from an entirely different world, for it was Thor that asked most about the differences between past and present—relentlessly hungry for any new idea that helped him conceptualize earth like a normal human would. He'd go as far to say that he'd probably miss Tony's complaining about the large amount of people in his house—but that'd be stretching it. But, If there anyone that he felt he could do something for, it was Bruce. He related easily. They would both just sit there in silence and read. They didn't say much to each other, but Steve never pushed it. It had gotten better after the attack, but no one was nearly so close with the Doctor than Tony, but Steve didn't mind at all. It was just nice to know he could sit in a room with someone and just be. They didn't need to talk or pretend like everything was okay. The only time he could get his selfish fill of existing through other people.

Slowly, Steve straightened himself out and listened to the soft  _woosh_  of the panel doors sliding open. The elevator lifted, dropping his stomach, and he forced himself to calm.  _Ding._

Darkness greeted him—almost like an old welcoming friend. The halls were tall and quiet as he padded through, grateful for the heat that seemed to be holding the entire building together. He walked slowly through the kitchen, the square timer on the sleek looking black oven read out to him at 2:42 am. He ran a hand through his startlingly damp hair, gathering snow slush in the process, and wiped it off on a dish towel before tossing it aside. It was much later than he'd be active for than usual, even if he would just lie in his bed and make better acquaintances with the ceiling tile. He figured it might just be from walking around in snow storms for several hours, but he just wasn't tired at all.

He carefully felt around for his mug sitting in the dishwasher when he noticed a gentle glow of a lamp radiating from the circle of the living room. Slowly, he put the handle down, eyes zeroing in. The dark had fooled him. He thought he'd escaped it. He thought he didn't want someone to know—but Steve's insides seemed to twist in worry at the idea that he suddenly really wanted to tell someone what had happened tonight. And that—for one time in his life, Steve wasn't coming home just to sit in the dark and wait for morning to return. Someone really was waiting for him.

And then the feeling recoiled—he twisted to look back at the clock and weighed the odds that the only reasonable idea of who would be up this late—that most likely would be awake and about, anyway—was Tony. Steve suffered in a breath, pulling back up his mug.

_Okay. You don't need to tell him anything, but you gotta have a purpose for being up._

Grabbing some water, Steve quickly took a gulp of it and headed towards the light in the living room. Winding around the long black couch, Steve stood in surprise. The lamp was on, but the recliner's seat was empty.

"You look…wet, Steve." An amused voice came from behind the soldier. Steve jumped as he turned 'roud, and a bit of water splashed onto the chest of his sweater. Sitting on a black leather chair of an opposite facing lamp was the last person Steve expected to be up. Bruce Banner. He was still wearing the slightly wrinkled dark purple shirt, collar folded out, a few buttons missing. His legs were crossed at the ankle, one hand propping open a book. The golden light from the lamp twinkled off the edges of his glasses, but overall, Bruce seemed just as surprised as Steve—his mouth tightened in response.

"Ah—I didn't scare you, did I? I'm sorry," He fixed his tight closed-mouth'd smile lightly, "I suppose a voice coming from behind you in the dark is a set up for a terrible horror movie, isn't it?"

Steve rubbed at the damp spot on his sweater, pressing his heart back inside his chest. "No, really, it's fine."

Bruce's dark brows settled calmly, but his eyes seemed suspicious. "You sure?"

Steve breathed out hard through his nose. He sank down onto the couch, scratching under his jaw for a moment before he finally allowed what he thought in his panic. "I uh. Figured that you might be Tony."

Bruce leaned back, a thumb smoothing over his stopping point in his novel, pausing for thought. "No, Tony would never be so quiet. He'd never be able to contain himself. Guy's one of those plush monkey toys with those symbols that smash together this time of night. Any time he gets some inspiration— _Tshh_! Monkey business."

Steve smiled slightly, imagining Tony as a wind-up toy was easier than it seemed. "If you say."

Steve drummed a finger over his mug, and he glanced over at the book in Bruce's hands. It's cover was light yellow read that said:  _The Worry Solution_. Steve's smile grew wider as he leaned towards it. It looked familiar even from a distance, but now he knew. He'd  _read_  that same book before. It was apparent that Steve's gratification matched the grin on his face, as Bruce quickly glanced at his hands, flipping the cover over self-consciously.

"Oh—the book. Yeah. Well." He gave a small shrug. "They say reading makes you sleepy, so I thought I'd give it a try."

"And is it?" Steve couldn't help himself.

"Honestly, it's wholly ironic that this book is called  _The Worry Solution_. It just keeps stressing me out." Steve broke out into laugher, but Bruce managed over it, his voice equally exasperated. "I keep looking at the time thinking: Okay, how many minutes since I started reading that last chapter? 15? 30? God, it's just keeps getting later! I'm  _never_  going to sleep at this rate!"

Steve nodded, his shoulders rising with every chuckle. "I had that exact same problem when I read it."

Doctor Banner's eyes flashed coercively as he smirked at Steve. "You've read it before?"

The blond cleared his throat—took a sip of water to collect his explanation of just how many self-help books he'd tried to read that really only make him feel worse. "Yeah—well, you know. Reading is supposed to be soporific, so I pick up whatever is at the library—the self-help section is usually crammed full of books that no one checks out, so I figure that I'll be the person who tries."

"Soporific," Bruce repeated. He seemed impressed.

Steve tried not to flush at the institutive praise. "I learned that word from another book that was on how to fall asleep easier," Bruce raised his brows at him, waiting for him to finish. "…that didn't help me sleep at all."

Bruce low hum seemed to carry his understanding. "Well, between you and me, I didn't think anyone else attempted 'self-help psychobabble.' So, I'm glad. We'll have to exchange reviews on the terrible books we've read."

Steve grinned, his eyes bright. He actually managed to tell someone that he read self-help books, and he wasn't getting a bit of flak from it.

"Between you and me, Doc, the only psychobabble around here is when Tony suddenly stops speaking in English and gets into tick-tock-technological gobbledygook."

Bruce smirked again, thumbs still working at the page in his book. He stood up, and made his way towards the seat near the lamp, but seemed to be having trouble deciding in exactly where he wanted to go. He turned and padded towards the kitchen, but stopped once again.

"Steve," Doctor Banner stood off to the side, one hand gently holding the book to his chest. "I stayed up because I couldn't sleep, but also because I wanted to see you. I wanted to talk to you of what happened the other night. About Tony." He swallowed and pushed the nose of his glasses a bit as he chose his words carefully. "I don't think any of us had ever seen you so upset before. It surprised us, rather. And I think it also surprised Tony. I have an idea that he wasn't trying to actually cause trouble."

Steve let out a bitter chuckle. "Stark, not actually wanting to cause trouble?"

Bruce rolled his eyes, although no one could see him do so in the shadows. "I think he was actually trying to help you. Steve, I don't think you're aware of it, but you've been extremely withdrawn lately. To a level where it may seem that no one cares, or notices that it's going on—not even yourself. And believe me, I should know what that feels like." Bruce's shoulders hunched themselves. "I know Tony can be arrogant, but I think he just wanted to get you to share what was going on inside of you."

Steve simply stared skeptically into Bruce's statement, and the doctor sighed. "In his own unsparing way, of course."

"Help?" Steve's jaw snapped shut over the word. "I highly doubt that." Steve could still see the billionaire's outline, the traces of too much collogue, drink, and dark black eyes that raked Steve's walk of shame all the way down the hallway. "He made it very clear to me that was I was doing was unacceptable—and he had no idea what it was about anyhow!"

Bruce's mouth set itself sternly, his body suddenly very still. "What were you doing?" He asked slowly in that same calm tone.

 _Well,_  Steve thought,  _if I'm going to have to eventually tell someone, it might as well be Banner. He seems understanding enough._ "I…met someone. And tonight I went out with them. It's uh, why I'm getting in so late."

Banner's breathing seemed ghostly in the room. Steve had to strain himself to keep track of where Bruce was, because now the physicist seemed to be moving very quickly. He put down his book on Tony's coffee table. Tossed a pillow aside on the couch, fixed the slightly bent shade of a lamp, and finally just stood still. And Steve seriously thought that for all the nervousness the guy possessed, he certainly knew how to be still. Steve could feel his anxiousness running his mouth aggravatingly dry. Was telling Bruce a huge mistake already?

"Doc?" Steve asked tentatively. Bruce was quick to reaction; a full twitch of his muscles, and he responded.

"—Right, I'm sorry, Steve. I'm sorry." The doctor's voice shot out like a frightened punch. "I just." Fingers were picking at the collar of his purple vest. "I just didn't expect that. At all."

Steve's brows furrowed. "Well, I'm sorry…I think."

"No, no, no," Bruce's head shook firmly. "Don't be sorry. That's wonderful to hear that you're not nearly as bad off as—well, as I worried you might be. I was planning, honestly, to talk to you tonight about why you're feeling so withdrawn. Because I can relate to that." He paused, and the silence seemed so very loud. "But this is certainly a change to that plan."

"Do you not go out with anyone as well, Bruce?"

Bruce's eyes closed briefly as he thought. "Not for a very, very long time."

"And did other folks then think it was…unacceptable?"

"Steve, you have to understand that our situations, although correlating, are not the same. The… organizations that knew about my…condition…believed that it was wrong of me to do anything but hide. S.H I.E.L.D. forced that idea upon me until I realized that even I couldn't disappear forever." Steve's felt a tremor run through him over the word 'disappear', like an icy finger up his spine.

Doctor Banner sped into silence again, forcing a breath. "There are many things I regret in my life. I regret my father's passing. I regret that you weren't around to tell me that trying to duplicate the Super soldier Serum would destroy my entire future. But the one thing that I would forever change if I could take just  _one_  thing back would be that I was too selfish to let go. That I didn't listen to them. To anyone."

Bruce crammed a hand through the dark waves of his hair, knuckles tightening. He forced a breath. Then another. He turned away, but kept his eyes trained to the window, the noiseless passing of traffic that spiraled, lost in the depths of his sad brown eyes.

"And you have to understand that things go wrong for people like us, Steve. Things never go according to one plan. Sure, it starts because we make it go off like an explosion. But it levels out our world when we can't stop it. And ends with S.H.I.E L.D. cleaning up the fall out. Someway, somehow, the ones we love get hurt the most when we're suited up. Because we can't ever give them  _normal._  "

"So we're just like everyone else." Steve pressed. "Normal folks hurt the ones they love when they're themselves as well."

Bruce's dark eyes jumped to Steve's in a furious flash, his voice like a whip of frustration that steamed out from his mouth. "You learn the hard way that it's never going to be that  _simple_ , Steve. We _can't_  be ourselves. But when you try to force that, and people keep telling you it's going to go all wrong, and you don't listen because…because you'll give anything for a chance that'll prove they're wrong."

Steve felt like had entered into whatever Clint said was "The Twilight Zone". A loony place where Doctor Banner was talkin' up a storm that pelted Steve with too much information, too fast about his  _past_  of all things. Steve wanted to let him keep going. He wanted to learn more. But the grave look on Bruce's face told the soldier that things had changed, and he'd missed such an opportunity. Steve cleared his throat loudly.

"But were they right?"

Another deep breath. A cross over that line of numbing emotions. Bruce's dark brown eyes seemed to go on forever into their depths, haunting and cracking into layers of forced patience.

"Yes." He added simply, his tone hard. "They were."

Steve swallowed the lump in his throat that was working on suffocating him. "You said that our experiences were different, though." He tried not to let the desperation he felt colour his tone. This couldn't be happening. After such a great time. No. This couldn't be it. This couldn't.

"Yes, I did."

Steve's blue eyes seemed to hunt the darkness, desperate for a single phrase of hope that Bruce felt no one would ever look towards him for, and it pained him deep inside his chest to see it so clearly on the younger man's face. "And you think they'll turn out just the same?"

Doctor Banner sighed noiselessly; the mess of his brown hair shaking like the physicist's disapproval took place at a dead cellular level. "If I could give you one piece of advice," Bruce's broken laughter cut up his words, "Advice. From  _me_." A hand gripped through his hair. "God, this is not what I wanted to do tonight."

"I'd take advice from no one else," Steve allotted with a good guy smile that Bruce felt was too kind to mean any sense of truth. "What's the advice?"

The physicist's gaze lingered over Steve's slowly, contemplating. "Don't hide." Bruce finally managed out, his voice sounding even quieter than Steve had ever heard it. So raw, and sad. "Don't hide yourself, and don't hide the friend you made—in any way. Because—"

Steve nodded firmly, his eyes tight. "Because once you start running, they never let you stop." How long had he been since he said aloud his own mantra? It felt good to hear again.

Bruce's fingers tightened strongly over the cover of his novel. " _Never_ ," he whispered.

A stretch of quiet passed where Steve practically felt them both breathing as one. Both tired. Both scared. Both worried.

"Thank you for the advice, Doc." Steve licked his chapped lips, smarting at the sting in them. "I promise that I'll do my best to do as you say. But I'm not going to give this up. I know you don't like it, but I really feel that if you—"

Bruce turned abruptly to face Steve, already keenly aware of what the blond was leading towards. "Not me."

Steve blinked, startled. "What?"

"Don't bring them to me. I—" The doctor's thin grimace locked like a slammed door. He breathed out slowly through his nose, and tried again. "I'm sorry. I just meant that if you bring them here, I'm not going to meet them. Natasha, first, maybe. Barton. Even Thor, if you're feeling that adventurous. But not me."

Steve took a step forward, puzzled that the one Avenger that understood his secret wanted nothing to do with it. "Bruce—hey, hold your horses. Why? If this is about The—Other guy—"

Bruce looked at Steve, long and listlessly. "Usually, yeah, this would be entirely about him. But, strangely, it's only partly. I'm not trying to be mean here, Steve, but if you insist on doing this, know that I can't. I just  _can't._ "

"'Can't?'" Steve repeated, stunned. His brows furrowed roughly. "Can't you tell me?" Steve deliberated, bewildered at the sudden turn. "Please?"

"No." Bruce shook his head. "I'll help you if I can from a distance, but otherwise no. And don't ask me again." Fingers flickered at the scientist's collar, tugging and biding time. Dark eyes stared out into the rushing colours of the New York nightlife, completely blind to it all. He sighed. "I hope you never understand why I can't meet her."

Steve blanched. "Her? Who said it was a her?" He suddenly felt just as defensive. "Could just be a friend, like ya said."

"Well, you've got a bit of lip stick on your collar, Captain. Pardon me for insinuating."

Pink rushed to Steve's cheeks as he glanced down to find that somehow Beth's mouth must'va touched his neck. He covered it quickly, blotting the colour into the red fabric, embarrassed. He felt like a complete idiot now. What kinda fella walks around with lipstick all over his neck on their first date? Steve glanced to Bruce expectantly, waiting for the heckling. Thank the  _Lord_  he didn't run into Tony before noticing that. He'd never live it down.

Steve held up his hands, expiration lining his explanation. "It wasn't like that, I swear. We didn't get into heavy petting—during the cinema she must've rested her head on my shoulder and—"

Now this made even the most elusively nonplus, emotionally stagnate Doctor Banner  _laugh_ , and that seemed to break the dense atmosphere between them. He laughed loudly, as well, a strange light sound. Steve flushed again through the darkness.

"Relax. I won't go busting your chops when Tony never lets up. I won't say a word."

"Thanks," The relief he tossed into every letter was practically tangible, and it made Bruce chuckle softly once more.

"He really gets to you, doesn't he?"

"Unnervingly so," Steve muttered, glancing at out the windows. "Not all the time. But when he does." He flexed his fingers, remembering how he wanted to smash the wood of his door, the pictures in the hall, the metal in the bathroom, Tony's  _teeth_  in. "It's… bad."

"Heh," Bruce nodded appreciatively. "Would it help any to say that he feels that same way when it comes to you?"

"I'd never believe it. Not even from you, Bruce."

The doctor shrugged. "Well, that's the idea. That's Tony's whole plan. Pretend like nothing ever bothers him, and everyone will believe it to be so." Bruce's head bobbed as if agreeing with himself made it entirely true. "But, like the rest of us. It does. Eventually."

"Is it wrong if I still want to deck him?" A dark edge clung to the curl of Steve's voice at his confession.

"If you look closely, I promise you can see Tony beating up himself inside." Bruce retorted drily.

"Never had the pleasure of gandering that image," Steve surmised thickly. He shook himself of talking about Tony any further. "Thank you again for your advice."

"Don't mention it, Cap—by the way, since we're going into it and all. Was she the one that called your cellphone at dinner?"

Steve almost wanted to ask  _someone called my cellphone?_  when it hit him. He reached into the pocket of his pants. Once he found the device, he poked the keypad. "Actually, no. I dunno who that was. I don't recognize the number."

"Hm," Bruce said conclusively, a hand resting on his chin. "But do you have  _her_  number?"

Steve smiled ever so slightly. "I do. But only on hard tact. Think you could help me put it into my phone? I have it memorized anyhow, but I told her I would call her, and having it in there is faster, right?"

The doctor couldn't help but smirk at Steve's expression, part amusement, part surprise at how long it'd been since he'd seen Steve look so delighted at anything.

"Sure, Steve." He reached out his hand for the cellphone. "But first things first. What's her name?"

* * *

_You have suffered enough,_   
_And warred with yourself,_   
_It's time that you won._

\- Falling Slowly, "Once"

* * *

 **AN:**  For all the Intensiveness in this chapter, I really struggled NOT To label it: "The Self Help Book Club". H'yuck, I'm hilarious. But Damn. Poor guy. He...means well. Ah. **OH! Also** : For anyone that is interested in any of the events that Bruce is referring towards, do check out my other Bruce/ his love interest Betty Ross/The Avengers centered fic on my profile. It's called  **"The Count Down".**  Those feels, man. (also I love my self-help book humor. and monkeys. um. I used to work in a Barnes and Noble while I was in high school, so I have a TON of physiological book humor.)

possibly let me know what ya'all think? c: It just makes my world. Even a single ounce of a word about what you think.

So it looks like Brucey is gonna help out. Maybe. Er. If he can help himself. So now that one Avenger knows...well, we know how word travels. Let's see what happens next. I have a feeling that Beth and Steve will be seeing each other very soon...


	13. Tony's Pretend Midnight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: How about a few lovely updates guys? Expect at least three. Thank you SO much again for enjoying, for those that are justing coming in, and those lovely faithful readers, I adore you all! So… let's have some fun action. I hear a fight is going to happen soon. Have some fun Tony and Clint madness and adorable Steveness. (This chapter was so funny and sad and heartbreaking for everyone involved to write and I just. bromance scenes. All of them.)

Chapter 13: Tony's Pretend Midnight

 

* * *

All talk of circadian rhythm,  
I see today with a newsprint fray.  
My night is colored headache gray.  
Daysleeper.

* * *

"Good mor—"

"No."

Clint's mouth smirked dryly. Even from his view of the open kitchen, he could already see that Tony had activated the graphic shades along every window to show to him that it was a little past midnight somewhere in the Caribbean. The vague misty outlines of skinny palm trees swayed, their whispering rustles tossed through the living room's speakers. Pixelated clouds of soft white sand shifted in the breeze. The outline of the sky loomed dark and starless. Clint shifted the silver sports flask to his lips, took a brief sip.

"You do realise that it's—"

"No. We're not talking about it."

"Tony, give me a break. I don't like being up this early just as much as you do."

A blue shimmering circle rebuked from the shadows with a crippling  _hiss._

"Barton—you're ruining it—you're killing me, here. Just. Just humor me. For God's sake. It physically hurts me to move right now."

Clint sighed into his next sip, coffee sloshing through his teeth, mute in warmth and slightly burnt in taste. That was the last time he trusted Thor in attempting as he put it: "domestic elements of bonding". The pair, one standing, one half way-laying, half-way sitting on a recliner chair, was silent. A soft cry of a gull floated somewhere to Clint's left, about ten feet from where he stood.

"Okay. I'll bite. Where are we?"

A click at five feet away—Tony's fingers flicked the holographic controls towards the windows, undoubtedly. The entire beach rotated outwards—they were soaring far into the moonlight clouds, bobbing up and down like a balloon let loose into the sky. Clint's brows furrowed tightly, checking his mental mapping of exactly where all the major cities of any tropical island setting he could muster. In his training he acquired a bodily taste for location, an inch for topography. It was that, or he'd never be able to call himself a master marksman if he couldn't align himself into perfect positions for his protocols. The more puzzling and isolating, the better.

Except for when he wasn't  _actually_  there. All things considered…Clint found it slightly disorienting.

"Really, Legolas? Not a clue?"

Another sip. Another pause. "I hated that book in high school." Barton deadpanned. He didn't really care about Tony's jabs. If anything, it was just a way of conversing on a level with Tony that few chose to rise to. And Hawkeye flew to that challenge. He also developed the best defense plan for it when it was far too early to think of something just as cutting to say.

Don't acknowledge it.

"And I'm sure Tolkien would've hated you right back, buddy." Clint could practically hear the smirch in Tony's voice. "He wasn't a fan of modern warfare. The whole damn series is supposed to be some parable for how technology is ruining human nature. Pfft. Ruining human nature. I do that just fine on my own. Without the suit."

Clint's blue eyes strained to see Tony's expression in the darkness. "I'm really glad that you don't normally wake up this early. You sound just like my junior year English teacher. God, that guy was an idiot,"—suddenly Clint shook his head, wanting to laugh at what he talking to Stark about. "Are these the brilliant thoughts of Tony Stark after hours? The contemplation of children's literature?"

Another click and the view shifted back to the ocean front again. Chilly waves crafted the twist of the beach line, running for miles upon miles of inky charcoal-coloured sightlessness.

"Children's literature, existentialism, the universe silently exploding outwards until we eventually freeze to death in a few eons. That is, of course, if other alien races don't mutilate us first. It's all the same after a while, isn't it?"

"Maybe I should send you back to bed."

"Shh. We're pretending it's still midnight, and I'm actually wide awake, remember?"

"Whatever sinks your ship, Tony."

"That's the spirit. Sea humor, I like it."

"I think that 36 hours without sleep leaves you in a state of finding everything funny. Believe me, I should know. On a deployment mission, just before heading out to New Mexico—you know, where Thor's hammer fell? I stayed awake for 57 hours. By the end of it, the only phrase I could make sense of was Colson muttering something about never being able to decide between frosted or powdered donuts. I just started  _losing_  it over donuts. Freakin'  _donuts_. " Another sip. "That's when you know you're gone big time. He never let me live that down."

A quiet thump sounded near where Tony's low laughter seemed to echo as Clint finished, and ever so lightly he could make out the shape of Tony lying face first across the carpet.

"I don't need to carry you, do I? Because that'd be a pain. I always thought that was Pepper's job."

A small circle of blue light took a laser thin outline along Tony's ceiling as the genius rolled onto his back. It shimmered faintly with every breath Tony took. "You're quick in the morning, Barton. Too quick for me. I don't even know if that was a prick at my relationship or the way Pepper runs my entire business. Probably both."

"It's both."

"I knew that I didn't know it."

"So we callin' this thing off? These challenges?"

Tony heaved himself into a sitting position—only to smack back down on his back. "Oh no, this better damn well happen. I didn't get up for nothing. I was actually sleeping, if you want to know the truth."

"Really?"

"Mhmmm," Tony sighed dreamily from the floor. "I was such a sap to think I'd actually make it an entire night."

Clinton's brows rose at this. "We mentioned it to you two days ago that this was happening."

A snort from Tony's direction, the blue circle wavered slightly; large vertical shadows blocked it out, shifting and retreating. "Shit. I thought I'd be able to make shadow puppets with my fingers on this thing. I mean, sure it keeps me alive, pays the bills—but just think of the possibilities if I could make _shadow puppets?"_

Clint blinked. "Right. It's because you don't listen to anything reasonable. Silly me for forgetting."

The room went nearly pitch black for a moment as Tony covered the Arc Reactor in his chest. "Uh, correction here, I actually do listen to reason. The problem is that usually what's reasonable to other people means absolutely nothing to me. For example: I have no valid reason to think that I'd be any more sleep two days ago than I was yesterday. Insomnia's a bitch for normal people, but to me it's like imagination juice. And it just so happen I ran out of it. So I switched to another juice—and I was out like a light. It. Was. Glorious."

"I really don't think blacking out substitutes for normal sleep."

"You're right, Barton. It doesn't. But Kahlúa substitutes like hell for Imagination juice. Speaking of which, you want any?"

"Nah. I prefer my coffee a little less functioning alcoholic in the morning, thanks."

"More fer me," Rising from the floor, Tony padded directly for the kitchen. A slight chime was heard from the counter top as a metal cup bounced across the smooth surface and rolled just out of Tony's grasp. The crisp trill of liquid melting into a glass. Soon, Clint had a neighbor that was standing next to him, and they each mutually took a sip at once, both staring into the charming, island moonlit night.

"You know what's interesting, though." Tony added, after a few seconds, because God forbid two guys just be quiet for a while in the morning. "I'm up." He pointed to himself in a flourish. "You're up." A finger towards Clint. "You want to know who isn't up right now?"

Clint's blue eyes batted through Tony's knots of black hair that struck the billionaire's face, making them hard to see, but Clint was sure Tony's black eyes read out to be two things: blood-shot, and terribly amused.

Barton huffed out his chest in an attempt to gain more time to observe around himself. "Try me."

And then Tony simply pointed outwards, and down.

Now, Clint Barton would consider himself a pretty sharp guy. Sharper, more handsome, and definitely able to pin you to a wall at 600 yards. But for the life of him, he earnestly had no idea what the hell Tony was pointing at. And when it came to directions and targets, Clint  _always_ knew what was being pointed at. It was his job.

Clint padded a few steps forward, toes edging silently as he followed Tony's lead, suddenly aware that whomever Tony was talking about was apparently in the room with them, and it knocked Clint off center to not already know this information. He hated it when his acute temptation for distraction got him off course. Especially considering that the most marginally distracting member of his entire team had found out faster than he did.

The sleek black cloth around the back of the living room's couch seemed to lock arms with the darkness of the entire room. Even Tony's calming background of palm trees and filtered, artificial moonlight couldn't shred an ounce of light on the area. He'd have to get closer. Tony stopped midway, a smile of deliberation on his face as he waited out Clint's own reaction.

Pressing his waist against the back of the couch, Clint slowly lowers his gaze from Tony's to find himself staring down at the lump that was taking up most of the seating. He tilted his head, and ever so slightly he saw the tiniest fraction of something yellow—golden, even.

"What the—is that  _Steve?"_  He nearly yelled this, but managed to shove his question into a tight whisper.

Ghostly chuckles shook Tony's frame, and he nods appreciatively. "It surprised me too."

A strange minimal fit of annoyance traces itself up Clint's neck—like he wanted to crack it, but it won't give.

"You knew that he was here this whole time?"

Tony gave a small nod, smile plastered to his lips. "Sure did—hey, don't gimmie that look!" Tony's whisper turned hot in defense for a moment. "It wasn't me that found him like this."

Clint's eyes craned back to Steve's figure, and, with complete concentration he can actually get an idea of Steve's body. Still completely dressed in a sweater, belt, and black pants the blond had stretched out along the cushions on his stomach—although the wide cross of his shoulders created a teetering effect, as if he moved just a hair more and he'd fall off the thin plane of the couch. He was half way hidden under a light white sheet that looked like it had been stolen from a properly made bed somewhere in the Tower. One arm tossed loosely off the edge, hanging down awkwardly, trailing through the carpet. The other was wrapped tightly under him, ending with a large hand popping out against the collar of his shirt, almost as if he was gripping at the back of his own neck.

Speechless for a second, Clint found himself confused on what to feel. He'd never seen Steve asleep before, out in the open and looking so…vulnerable. It wasn't that it was too terribly shocking—but it wasn't exactly a well hidden secret that Steve hadn't been…himself, for a while. And, of course, Clint knew that probably came at the price all of them suffered at the end of the day—just…well, Steve's day started and ended with the same memory that…everything he knew was gone. Clint shifted his jaw uncomfortably at the thought. He felt for the Captain. But he didn't have a clue on how to even begin to talk about his own horrifying experiences. Let alone trouble someone else's.

Eventually he settled for what he was sure Tony was thinking himself.

"That looks ridiculously uncomfortable. Why isn't he in his room?"

Tony's dark eyes zeroed in so hungrily that Clint swore he could see rearing mechanical horses behind his eyes, nails for teeth chomping at a neurotransmitter bits. A classic Stark ramble was coming on.

"Well, listen to this. So I come up from my lab around 3 'something this morning, yeah? And as I make for the kitchen I caught a glimpse of Bruce sitting in the living room, reading of all things. And, of course, he isn't one to stay up as late as I do, so when I went to call out for him and I got the _iciest_ look like you wouldn't believe—an' of course I have to check it out after that. So he gets up and asks me to follow him back towards the bedrooms, nonchalant as all hell, only to tell me that he'd found Steve passed out in the living room and he didn't want me making a fuss about it."

Clint's smirk reappeared, and Tony fought the urge to scoff at it. "I wouldn't have made  _that_  big of a deal about it, give  _me_  a break." A pale hand wavered weakly to motion towards the sleeping solider. "I mean, Christ, I didn't think America's perfect soldier here even  _slept_ after decades of being the poster child for Cryonic suspension. But there he was then—and, well, I guess we have to stop playing house now, Barton, because it's six in the morning and here he is now."

"I suppose that's a little weird. Given how reclusive the guy is. I get the idea he doesn't like being watched." Another pause for a sip, trying not to seem like he was buying time. "If you know what I mean—" Clint added, a touch uneasily.

Another flippant hand wave that stirred some air near Steve's face.

"Yeah, I read the S.H.I. E.L.D reports. But, honestly, it isn't even him sleeping all stone cold badass like in the living room that I find strange. It's the fact that he's  _dressed_  and he's asleep at six o'clock in the morning when he's usually up, killing everyone with those charming baby blue farmboy eyes of his, and now he's suddenly  _not."_

The muttering between the two men seemed to bother the solider. They both froze as a small noise of defiance half heartily murmured from Steve's mouth—before he turned his head to face back towards the cushions, nuzzling into the soft fabric. Tony snorted at the slightly heartwarming sight.

Clint took another sip of his coffee, finding it bitter.

"And what do you care, Tony?" Clint asked as softly as he could, nearly mouthing his words.

"He's been acting weird, Clint." Tony allowed with a strange dark strain on his lips, equally silent. "I don't like it."

"You're paranoid." Clint mouthed sharply.

Bloodshot eyes edged around Clint's brutal stare.

"I am  _not_  paranoid," Tony mouth-retorted slowly, over-expanding every syllable.

"Yes. You are." Clint began, leaning away from their playful banter before. To prove his point he slightly gave his words a horse pitch. "Leave Steve alone. So he went out. He deserves to have friends."

Clint took a step back from couch, giving another shot at cracking his neck. It was really bugging him now. Tony stayed exactly where he was, brooding over Steve's figure.

"Friends." Tony paused shortly. "Like the regular ones we all have? Friends, Barton?"

Slowly, Clint turned back, his eyes tight. "We're all friends—or whatever. Team mates. Close enough. Steve—he's so young. I think we forget that. He's like—23, 24? Seriously. We can't just expect him to—to be with us all the time. Half that time he looks he doesn't want to be anywhere. Maybe he found some place to go. Someone to be with when he doesn't have to be with us." Clint's nostrils flared, his words spinning out with more a bite than he liked. Where was this coming from?

From the couch, Tony's hard glare continued to drain the compassion from the air.

"Do I have to spell it out for you? He's lonely, Tony. For something we can't give him."

"For something we can't protect him from, you mean."

Clint paused, his icy blue eyes wide. He titled his neck and triggered a sharp, satisfying  _crack._  
  
"No. I don't mean that at all." Slowly, Clint took a deep breath. He found Tony's black eyes in the darkness, red streaked and obviously trying not to show how worried they were.

"Tony. What happened to you…when you went through that…void…the Chitauri. No one was prepared for that. But we know Steve. He's freakin' Captain America—he's survived World War 2, I think he has a head for danger. I think he knows what he's putting at risk. Pepper, Jane—well, Natasha can easily protect herself. Hell, we don't even know if he's putting anything at risk. At all. Maybe he just had a late night. Maybe he doesn't sleep for days, just like you, or me."

Clint found himself out of breath, and he let the suffocating feeling sink in deep.

"Sometimes Tony, we have to live with not knowing."

For a moment, Tony seemed to ease at this—but then that moment was gone, replaced with a grim hard tightness around his jaw. Clint's eyes narrowed again. What  _was_  this? He'd never seen Tony looked so… scared before.

"There was a time when I thought I had a head for danger too, and that I knew what I was risking. But I was wrong." He pulled his entire gaze to Clint, fractured at the bone. "I don't want to be wrong again. Am I seriously the only one that thinks this is a bad idea? Re-think about it. He's Captain America. Still sort've naive to our time. Still completely alone, without us. And still one goddamn kick ass of a motive to get at. Someone could be trying to get him. To get to us. It's just—" Tony blinked hard. "I don't mean to be an asshole all the time, Barton. But he's just been so shut in lately that I thought he was  _one thin_ g I didn't have to worry about. Just one thing I didn't have to  _think_  about. Now it's changing, and I honestly have no idea what to do about it. And I need to know what to do. And it's scaring me. This doesn't scare you? Not even for a second?"

Clint's eyes snapped closed. He curled his fingers tightly around his flask. "No. No—you have a point. Now I'm worried about it too. I mean—it is strange—we've all noticed Steve acting…basically nonexistent. But the way I see it Tony, is this. Steve's young. I know he doesn't act like it—I think we can all feel the emotional aging that he's been through, just when he looks at us. But he is young—and he's the only Avenger member that wears a mask. An actual mask. He can hide himself out there. The public doesn't know his face all that well, and S.H.I.E.L.D. does one hell've a good cover up for us anyhow. And speaking of which, Tony, there's something you gotta face."

"What is that?" Tony asked lowly, his eye still tangled in Steve's gentle breathing.

"You  _chose_  to reveal yourself. You had a mask as well, and you took it right off in public, and you sucked up the attention—but now you're taking all your anxiousness out on Steve, the most easily hidden out of all of us. He didn't make you take off your mask, Tony. It's not his fault for what you did. It's not his fault that you had to take that bomb through the tear, and it's not his fault that you're a publicly known hero."

Fingers rushed through the sharp crew cut of Clint's hair as he spoke, suddenly frustrated at having to tell Tony any of this, as if he didn't already know. But  _dammit_ , it someone had to say it, he supposed it'd be him. "I think the only thing Steve chose for himself was to become Captain America. And even then, we know he had help."

With that grim waxen glare across his face, Clint found himself side stepping back over to where Tony stood, one eye fixed to the billionaire's arm, suddenly worried that Tony might actually punch Steve in his sleep like some childish low-blow of anger. Tony tossed his head, freeing the cold pitch of his eyes to stare anywhere, be anywhere than where he was in that moment. Clint just calmly drank his terrible tasting coffee to kill time.

Another protest from Steve—but this time he turned further, burrowing into the couch as if he was trying to hide (and Clint supposed all his dumb rambling wasn't helping that), the one hand that was touching the floor twitching—and suddenly furiously  _digging_  into the carpet—alarmed, Clint nearly reached down to stop it, less Steve  _rip_  out Tony's new flooring—but just as the tremor had come on it was gone—his grip relaxed.

"Did you see that?" Clint asked, his voice almost breaking.

Tony glanced back—his eyes still distant as the Caribbean stars were from New York. "My guess is it's the start of a night terror. He's not in REM sleep. He hasn't been there for a while."

Clint glanced sideways at Tony, a smudge disbelieving. "I've gone so long with having such a hateful relationship with sleep that I did my homework on it. It's weird mathy stuff. You don't want to know."

"Nightmare?"

"Night  _terror._  Small change with the wording. Big difference in what that beast is."

"So he's dreaming?"

"No." Tony contended quietly, his voice somber. "He'll never remember what scares him." Quickly, Tony turned away, conveniently distracted by the virtual wind tugging at the palm leaves. "I rarely do." He muttered under his breath.

Clint left Tony to pace about. He chewed on the idea of having a night terror—suddenly weary of if he ever had something to that effect, but he was drawing a blank.

He always knew exactly what scared him in his sleep. And that started with an L.

Another slight sound—almost a whimper—Hawkeye's gaze shifted down, instantly alert—but all that could be seen was the pause in Steve's breathing—a deep inhale—and shifting of his legs. The single sheet twisted down, pulling itself off of the blond.

Barton sighed, glancing at Steve's knuckles twisting tight into the sheet's corner, balled up like a fist, a foreign feeling of helplessness sitting in his stomach.

"You don't give yourself a break, do you buddy?" Clint added softly, his eyes light.

"What?" Tony tossed back from the slight distance of the speaker he had been idly poking at.

"Steve—I was talkin' to—well, just look at him. He looks exhausted even when he's sleeping. It's starting to bother me."

_"You're_  starting to bother me, Clint. I thought Steve mother hen'd everyone to death, not you."

"You care about him too. Can it, Stark."

Silence.

Slowly, Barton continued on through it.

"Thinking about it now….I think that's one of the few choices he's ever had in his life. Now I hardly think he can stand being  _Steve Rogers_ , let alone Captain America." Clint shook his head, unsure now. "Just from watching him sit around, or pretend to actively do something. It was pitiful. Painful. Just like right now is. I can't help but think what would become of him if he decided to not get up in the morning. If he would just sit in the darkness and not shower and not do the simplest things like brush his teeth and he could just get drunk and forget that he's entirely alone in his universe."

Unable to deal with it, Clint quickly flicked his wrist—in the darkness the white sheet skittered upwards ever so slightly like the hands of a ghost—and he pulled it over the solider further, covering his shoulders. The thin layer of the sheet fell slowly, crisping the darkness between the billionaire and the marksman, floating, drifting, a white flag of surrender. "But then I remember that he's genetically written, bottle'd serum or not, to  _be_  Steve Rogers, and he'll go on thinking about the lives he can save and the good he can do and pretend he doesn't feel like he's turning to stone inside."

Enough with talking—soon he'd be as bad as Tony. Clint's jaw snapped closed. He crossed his arms over his chest, eyeing Tony. Check mate style. Surprisingly, Tony didn't protest. He just stood there, locked as well, dark eyes heavy over the windows, the sheet, Steve. Silence was happening for a second time that morning. Clint almost didn't believe it.

"Sheesh. You sure do think about a lot when you're sitting up in your bird's nest, pissing into Coke bottles." Tony confessed slowly, the gears in his head turning. He pushed a strand of his hair back behind his ear, twisting the neck of his glass. "And what do you suggest we do?"

"So…we just have to cautious about this. Just stay cool.  _Try_  to stay cool about it. I know whatever the hell you saw in that void eats you up inside like it eats me up inside for what I've done just here on planet Earth. But we don't know anything yet, Tony. And Steve's had a  _shit ton_  taken from him. I'm not going to join you in taking this—whatever-it-is, if that's your plan."

Slowly, Tony sighed out, listless, the fight in him dying like an ember desperate for a flame it just couldn't find.

"I'm not trying to take anything away from Steve. But I'm going to keep an eye on what he's doing. Not too much surveillance, but I've got to know."

"I think you're just covering up your busybody ways."

"Really, S.H.I.E.L.D. agent? I'm covering  _my_  busybody ways?"

Clint's grip loosened. "You're hilarious at 6 in the morning, Tony."

"So—is it seriously just us?"

"Well, not exactly. Natasha should be awake soon. Thor as well. I figure we'll wake Steve and then we'll begin. Oh—and Bruce."

"Oh no. No, no, no, no," Tony sputtered instantly. "Didn't you hear me? I saw Bruce less than two hours ago. That is not going to happen. Big guy needs a solid eight hours, or else my tower is going get another fancy remolding courteous of Flip-This-Shit-Hulk. No thank you."

"Fine. So well just wait for Natasha and Thor. It shouldn't be long now."

Tony's snicker caused Clint's vision to spin back towards where the genius was standing, dark curls drifting like little cracks that splintered the screens of his fake digital paradise.

"What?"

"He's drooling."

Clint fought between wanting to smile or roll his eyes. "Must be a serious kind of exhaustion."

"America's sweetheart. Drooling in his sleep." Another chuckle. "Kid kills me sometimes."

"You wakin' him up?"

A smile shimmered in the dull light, worthy of rivaling the Cheshire Cat. "Me? Not a chance."

The rise of a brow, Clint found himself frowning. "Well don't look at me."

Tony simply raised a hand to wave at someone behind Clint. "I'm not."

"Pleasant morning my friends. Although, will someone inform me of why Tony's fortress is now watery?" Thor ducked from the open kitchen, long golden hair somehow perfect regardless of sleep or hellfire.

Clint shook his head once more, although he couldn't help but smirk at Thor's confused tone. "Morning Thor. Yeah, about that. Don't try fishing in here. You could break a window big time."

* * *

I cried the other night.  
I can't even say why.  
Fluorescent flat caffeine lights,  
Its furious balancing.  
I'm the screen, the blinding light.  
I'm the screen, I work at night.  
I see today.

Don't wake me with so much.  
The Ocean machine is set to nine  
I'll squeeze into heaven and valentine  
My bed is pulling me.  
Gravity.

\- R.E.M., "Daysleeper"

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: revised 10/31/013 (Happy Halloween) for minor editing on re-calibrating the word choice of Tony Stark.
> 
> Yeah, got me in some Hawkeye and Tony bonding! And some adorable Steve couch-cuddles. Too flipping cute to handle. Thank you SO much again for waiting for me! I'm sorry. Midterm, projects- my summer classes will be over soon! Expect action and Beth in the next chapter. ;) Seriously. Next chapter. Poor Steve...
> 
> NOTE: To find out more about what Clint "Hawkeye" Barton means when he mentions Agent Colson's validation between donuts, type into YouTube: " Marvel One Shot: A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To Thor's Hammer". It's apparently an extra scene that I had NO idea even existed. I pee'd myself a little it was so funny. And bad ass.
> 
> Maybe let me know what ya'll think, please? c:
> 
> post- edits note:  
> AN: Fun fact I found today as I went back through the Captain America movie. Steve's (movie verse) date of birth is actually 1918, which would make him about 27 respectively in regards to the rest of the documentation presented. Although it is (apparently?) canon that he is 27, I am sticking my version of Steve at 24. I greatly enjoy fics that toy with the idea of how young Steve is—not that 27 isn't still ungodly young for someone to be placed into war. But comparing the mind of a 24 year old to the obviously 34-43 age range of the rest of the Avengers is far too interesting to pass up. Keep an eye out.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the next few chapters are probably my favourites...
> 
>  
> 
> AN: TAH-DUH! I GOT A CHAPTER OUT IN TIME FOR STEVE'S BIRTHDAY! HAPPY BIRTHDAY STEVE! And as a special treat, a LOT of stuff happens! Like Whump! Who loves Whump? I love Whump! Steve!Whump! All the Avengers together! Action! Drama! Beth AND Ronda! Fun stuff! Bad stuff! And An interesting ending! What the hell is Kay talking about? Find out! Happy 4th to all who celebrate it, and if you don't, have a GREAT day today! You guys make my life awesome, seriously. I'll send out thank you notes soon to those who reviewed. It means SO much. *fixed 7/10 for my derp typeos.

Chapter 14: Misdirection

 

Daylight licked me into shape

I must have been asleep for days.

And moving lips to breathe her name,

I opened up my eyes.

And found myself alone,

alone,

alone,

above a raging sea;

That stole the only girl I loved,

And drowned her deep inside of me.

* * *

"I don't think you should do this, Steve," Natasha's curt voice seems to have a trace of concern for him—and it made him feel all at once happy and equally alarmed—because Natasha didn't voice her concern lightly right in front of others.

He puts on the best high spirited grin he could muster—which feels a little lopsided on his face. "Don't worry about me—it's supposed to be a challenge. It'll be—" He fights for an adjective. "Great."

Natasha's lips didn't settle themselves, and ever so slightly Steve feels his stomach drop. 'Great' definitely wasn't the right word. He questions if there ever will be one to please Natasha.

She leans in closer to him, now the last pair to leave from Tony's living room to Tony's gym, which also functions as a lab. Well, really, most rooms in Tony's life functioned at double what it was supposed to do. Sometimes triple. "When's the last time you got a full night's sleep?"

"Tonight." He says instantly. But then he stops. "No, that isn't right." He tries again, blinking. "Today. Just this morning. I had three hours." His cloudy blue eyes glance at Natasha's sheepishly. "I'm really not trying to brag here, but that's nearly six hours for a normal person to my sleep ratio."

She looks at him fully, her dark green eyes searching, analyzing, her expression emotionless, minus a tight scowl of disapproval.

"I don't think it's enough." She says shortly. Then she shoulders her way ahead of him.

He picks up his pace to keep up with her graceful steps. "Nat, I had  _Thor_  of all people wake me up." He chuckles slightly, "And I thought Director Fury was loud in his morning meetings, holy cow." He presses a hand to his eye, rubbing hard. "It's just training, basically. We're just versing each other. It's no different than any time before when we've trained."

The auburn haired spy barely turned to acknowledge him. "But it  _is_ different this time, Steve, because you were out all night—probably haven't slept in two days, from how much I haven't seen you—and it's great that you're feeling cheerful, but you can't keep putting off sleep."

This causes Steve's brows to crumple, buffeted. He lags behind her. "I'm not putting off sleep."

A swing of her hip tells Steve that she isn't buying that for a second.

"I'm not," he presses further. "Nat, I don't need to sleep that much. I've told you guys. Even Director Fury knows that. I need three to four hours, and it's like I've sleep eight. It's not normal, yeah, believe me, it's a real pain sometimes, but it's how my body works now."

Natasha's steps slow ever so lightly, her neck turns, her green eyes unreadable. Steve finds his mood drooping just trying to compete with her stare. It's going straight through him like the steel tip of a knife, accurate and deflectable.

"Natasha," Steve's voice lowers considerably, his blue eyes suddenly wearily. "70 years I've been asleep. You really think I wanna go  _back_  to that every night?"

"I understand what I can Steve, and I get what you mean. But you've been doing a lot for just yourself lately, and honestly, it's really, really incredible to see you out and about—making friends, perhaps?" Something amusing faintly shimmers from behind her harsh green eyes. "But we all have to go back to the places we don't want to. We all do. At some point. And the longer we put it off, the worse it becomes. Just keep that in mind."

"Will do," Steve agrees, grateful that the subject can hopefully be dropped now.

Honestly, Steve was glad that Thor had woken him as he did. He wasn't too happy to look up half-sleep and spot Tony (of  _all_  people, for crying out loud), Clint and Natasha all looking at him as he lay out of the couch, but he'd rather it not go on much longer. He had enough of that nonsense at the hospital. He didn't even remember falling asleep. He was just talking to Bruce and then—nothing. It's blank.

Walking into the gym, Steve gives up trying to reason the last time he slept. He decides to focus on what he actively knew when he was awake. That his date, his literal first date ever with a woman, and it had gone better than grand. He had her number saved to his phone. He was a regular modern fella now, if he wanted. He could call her with the touch of a button.

From the center of the gymnasium mat, Clint stands, palms pressed almost in prayer. But Steve knows Clint better than that—soon they rub together, almost masterfully. Suddenly he produces a single arrow from between his fingers. Steve's eyes focus tighter, disbelieving.

"There's a technique known in the art of magic called 'misdirection'." His brown eyes allow themselves to settle onto his entire team, one by one. "The challenge today is that idea implemented into combat. Two will approach, one will attack, and the other will create a misdirection that will avoid that blow  _and_  bring the attacker down. It's very much like practicing one's dodges, but with an idea of being a few steps head of your enemy. And our greatest enemies' power is more or less ourselves pitted against each other, so I'm afraid, kiddies, that we're all we have to work with for now. In the field this could not only save your energy, but it'll actively keep us fighting towards an end, and not just destruction."

A slight pause in which Clint drummed the arrow across his knuckles. "And that isn't just my re-phrasing of what Fury's screamin' about us to work on. It's what he wants. However! I propose that whoever can accomplish this technique first will not have to attend any S.H.I.E.L.D. meetings for two weeks."

"In," Tony shouts instantly.

"Fine," Natasha agrees, pushing her hair back from her face.

"Having helped with the authority of these events, you already know my say so," Thor booms, grinning at Clint.

"I should've known this had to be the brainchild of some S.H.I.E.L.D. sham," Steve added, a smirk resting on his face. "All right. So who's first?"

Clint's smirk was there, friendly, sternly playful— "You."

And then he opened fired.

The arrow was suddenly hurled through the air like a blast from a gun, straight into Steve's face—but it took more than a fast pitch to make Steve waver. He snatched the shaft of the thing and quickly balled his fist, listening to the sickening crunch that reminded Steve of tiny, dry animal bones.

He didn't even bat an eye at the attempt. Slowly he uncurled his fist, his blue eyes taking in the scene. "Really, Barton? You're gonna start by throwing sticks—"

Then Steve notices a towering shadow over take him from behind. He barely has time to turn—shoulders balked, he rolls forward just as the mega impact of what feels to be an earthquake that rocks the very  _walls_  around them closes in from his last position. He cracks his neck upwards, eyes wild as he senses the very familiar stance of Thor's body—poised with one arm up in the air, and the other closed tight around his giant hammer—crackling and sparkling with so much electricity that _every_  hair on Steve's body rose as soon as he looked at it.

Slowly, Thor lifted the thing back, swinging it over his shoulder like a baby with a rattle. The relaxed, gleeful grin widened with every step forward. Steve braces himself, chin stubbornly pointed out, crouched and ready to spring.

"Are you prepared, fearless Rogers?" Thor's voice seemed to darken to a guttural rumble of thunder, twisting the heat and the lights. Even Tony jumped as the ceiling flickered above them—shadows for an single instance—and the whole of Thor's shining silver polished armor flashed brighter and more strongly than any fireworks spectacle Steve had  _ever_  seen, burning with a thousand different shades for fire—ones that Steve doubted had names in their world. Perched in his mighty hand, outlined in thousands of searing, burning ripples of lightening was Mjölnir.

"So you got the first move. But this ain't my first game of chess." Steve quickly checked for his own shield. "Do I get my weapon, or am I lonein' it?"

"Think fast or don't think!" Tony jeered at him.

Thor's hammer came down again, shaking the floor and Steve's teeth at the same time.

_Misdirection, huh?_  Steve thoughts flooded in rapidly. He rolled once more away from the second impact, then the third—and was it him, or did Thor really seem to be hitting harder with each blow?—Sweat dotted Steve's eyebrows. He jumps back, desperate for an idea to use in the bare walls of Tony's gym. The heat from Thor's weapon humidifies the air, pulling Steve's energy with it. He's out of breath before he knows it just from dodging. When the lights flicker again he grabs for an idea—but it's short and it's not well planned. But he tries it.

He leaps across the edge of the ring, making for the light switch. Darkness isn't exactly the most subtle misdirection but without his shield he feels like he's doesn't have much of a choice. He stretches for it, nearly across the way when a white wall of power overtakes him.

Steve feels his knees give out before he comprehends the pain. Shock wraps tight up his spine, curling around his brain like a fist, shaking his version into a seizure inside his skull. The room spins, flops around, faster and faster until it's just colours that are painting Steve's vision in thousands of burning white lights—his skin feels the pressuring of something boiling, raw and open across his flesh, dripping down his legs.

His last thought is that he must've hit the lights, because everything goes impossibly dark and terribly silent.

* * *

Peggy's dark red lips are against his, soft and yielding, and he can't help but nearly melt into having her arms around him. Her breathing is blissfully warm, and she trails kisses from under his chin to his neck. When she gets to his collar bone Steve notices the heat on his body fading. His fingers start to go numb, and no matter how hard he pulls her against his chest, he's starting to lose the feeling of her breathing. Quickly he cups her face in between his hands, holding her there, staring into her brown eyes. And then he's kissing her—hard—his mouth fighting for her to push back against him—his hands dropping to her shoulders, wanting to shake her like a rag doll—he nearly bites his own ravenous kisses into her neck just get to reaction—even if it's painful. Even if he has to cause her pain, at least he'd know she was alive.

Lord knows that's how he feels every day of his life without her.

Except for when he gets there, she's freezing against his face. Slowly, Steve raises his hand and places it along the temple of her ear. He looks back up into her eyes—but they're closed. He forces them back open in one last attempt. His throat feels pinhole tight.

They are nothing but empty sockets staring back at him.

He cannot hear himself screaming.

* * *

He wakes in what feels like seconds later—the white brightness around him filtered by giant black dots that flickered in and out of his vision. That, or he's blinking. Very slowly. A hand across his arm seems to be holding his spinning body to the floor. Every nerve feels like it's jumping across, crisscrossing in his skull, burning up. He blinks—his eyes sting furiously, and he prays it's not tears. But it's not tears. Sweat. He's sweating. Buckets. He can feel his clothing sticking to the floor, moist across his skin, seeping back into his eyes to burn once again. His grimace forces a blink. Again. Again. It becomes harder to do, like he's forgetting how...Awake. Has to stay awake. He's not tired. He's not afraid. He just wants everything to stop moving.

"—He's coming around. Tony, bring my blood pressur—" Calm, slightly lower in pitch. Banner, Steve decides. It has to be—

A steady rumble of a thicker voice is above him, Steve strains away from it. It's so loud. "—I do not understand—this is my fault and yet I did not expect—" Thor, of course it'd be him.

"You didn't expect for him to crumble like wet origami? Thor, you hit him in the side with your  _hammer._  Your hammer.  _Yours_. The one that Hulk can't even pick up. Sorry, Bruce, I know it's not the best time but it had to be said." Tony's voice is the strongest out of the men, rising in pitch with each passing word, choppy and inconsiderate as ever as he tries to lighten the sour mood—or smell, but that could just be Steve.

Steve opens his mouth, but his voice comes out shaking. Horribly. He can't even understand himself. "Wh—a—pp—ed—B—Br—"

He can't feel his tongue. He can't feel his fingertips. He notices Bruce giving his bicep a strong squeeze—but he can't  _feel_  it. He can only see it.

"Frankenstein speaks! It's  _alive,_ doktor! It's  _alive!_ " Tony's voice jumps happily from above, and he rattles Bruce's shoulder like he's the man that was clever enough to fix the 1919 World's Series. And, had Tony been alive back then, he probably could have.

Suddenly Tony's face is up close to Steve and he vision spins around—warping Tony's jaunty features even thinner. "Old man, you gave us all one  _hell_  of a surprise. Thor got you  _right damn smack_  in the side—you went down hard, buddy. But don't worry—we're all kind've glad it was you. I figure it would've killed a normal person." A quick thoughtful pause. "Okay, well,  _I'm_  glad it was you." Not even a bit shocked, Tony's as emotionally bullet proof as ever.

Giant meaty hands yank Tony away like a Vaudeville Hook to the throat. Thor—his breath overpowering in the fact that it smells too viscerally clean. Mint. So much mint. Steve vaguely thinks that some should really explain to the God of thunder not eat the toothpaste.

"Captain Rogers! Please accept my sincerest apologies. I felt for certain that you would take avoidance towards such a headlong attack. Are you critically wounded?"

"I—I—" Steve tries tapping his tongue against teeth. He thinks he can taste something rusty—something inside his jaw hurts. Hell. Something inside  _all_  of his bones hurts. "D—un-nno."

Bruce's callused fingers are firmly locked around Steve's jaw—the soldier snaps his eyes shut, twisting away—but Bruce's voice is strangely calming. "Steve, you can't close your eyes. I need to look at your pupils." An order. Steve struggles to do as he's told. Eventually Bruce's face is fuzzy, but in view.

Bruce adjusts his grip, all his teeth showing in a strange forced smile. "You've been hit with unimaginable amounts of electricity. What you are experiencing now is the bodily trauma and shock. You probably feel numb—but don't worry. Breathe. You're not paralyzed. You've only been out for about three minutes—and already—" there's a slight pause, a shadow falls along Steve's face, Doctor Banner straining to look at something out of Steve's view. "Already your incredible immune system and healing abilities are repairing, in mere  _seconds_ , rapid amounts of tissue and muscular damage. The only thing I can think now is that it may take a few hours to set your equilibrium correctly. You may feel nauseous. Your "super senses", as we'll call them, might be over stimulated. I'm checking now for concussive and repository factors."

"W-why—d—thh-is—" He can't stop shaking, and yet he can't feel himself moving. It's perhaps the most frustrating and embarrassing situation Steve's found himself in yet.

Bruce's expression is elsewhere, obviously listening only halfway. A blast of a yellow-white beam is shot into Steve's eye, and he shudders. "Okay. That's good. That's good. Not too shocked, er—" The doctor smirks sideways, entirely strained and trained to his face from years of work, and probably much bloodier diagnoses. "You know what I mean. You have fast reflexes, Steve."

_Fast reflexes, Steve._  Beth's voice is the minutest of whispers, and for a moment Steve's eyes glance rapidly around, wide, confused. Is she here?

Clint takes notice, his arms crossed, knees bent ever so slightly as if he was prepared to make a rapid call. "Ya alright?"

Steve focuses on nodding very slowly, not trusting himself to speak. Ever so slightly he can feel the tip of his fingers knocking in steady a tremble over the tiles beneath him. Cool and smooth.

"Well, reflexes or not, that caught all of us off-guard. The idea was to avoid the blow, not take it like a fucking beast." Out of sight, Tony was standing at holographic projection of Steve's fluids, BP, brain waves—the list went on. "But I guess when you're the guy that carries nothing but a shield around it'd be a little crazy to think you'd go offensively for an attack plan."

Steve wants to roll his eyes at Tony. He wants to get up and get everyone's hands off of him. He wants to wipe his chart readings from that screen and he wants to pretend like this never happened. But he can't—he's 220 pounds dead weight of the word  _can't_. A long strain of red hair briefly flutters by his temple, and he realizes that Natasha is behind him—his head in her lap. He forces his eyes to roll upwards—and he's greeted with the shrillest look of contempt he's ever seen from Black Widow. Bright green eyes polished coldly with a thick coat of discreetly diverted anger. He quickly pulls away from her.

He hopes she knows that his means of simple movements he can barely manage as his own means of apologizing. Because she was right. Women. Usually, always right.

"Shut up, Stark. No one wants to hear it." Her emerald cat eyes are on Tony, and, surprisingly, Stark stops. Steve's only regret is that he can't move his neck enough to see Tony's reaction to Natasha's scathing gaze.

Bruce's fingers poke something into Steve's wrist—but he can't seem to get it in deep enough. His eyes crinkle around the edges, making him appear so much older than he ever seemed. Steve wonders if he causing him grey hairs with every failed attempt. The dark brown of his hair is everywhere—and that's when Steve recalls that Bruce was asleep before all of this.

"Shit," Banner mutters, dabbing at the end of a very sharp looking needle. The hairs on Steve's neck rise gently, but he's already had needles 13 times that size shoved into just about every part of him before, during, and after his transformation. There was no reason to be scared now.

"Wh—at's up D-d-oc?" Steve tries to talk again, stuttering, but manages a preposition this time.

A rare smile sneaks onto Bruce's face, small and very real for a second as he stares at him. "I'm trying to get dammed IV hooked up—maybe I can try to find a strong sedative to help calm your pulse. I don't know if you can feel it yet, but your heart hasn't stop ringing loud for a while now—it's slightly worrying, but still." Bruce's smile fades just as quickly as it came, and in a lower voice he adds: "If you start trying Bugs Bunny impressions when you're distressed, you'll end up like Tony," Bruce thumbs over to the distracted billionaire and winks. "Don't go down that path yet, Steve. It's obnoxious. But that was clever of you."

Steve hopes his expression is nice, even when he can't feel all of his face, because he's never appreciated having a doctor on the team more than now.

* * *

The needle goes in on the 20th attempt, although none of Tony's digging and complaining can produce much from his emergency supply of drugs that'll do a single dent to Steve's fierce metabolism. Even Doctor Banner's calculations barely manage to keep up with Steve's body. He settles for a bottle of some kind of mixed medication that sergeant Fury had stored in case of an Steve related emergency—but Bruce assures Steve that it'll not have much more of an effect than the mildest of his anxiety symptoms. It doesn't matter to Steve all that much. It stops his obvious shaking, and he's able to speak, and that's better than waiting for it to go away naturally.

What won't go away is the problem of his team. What won't go away is how his entire team is looking at him. Staring. Constantly checking—with Bruce poking and prodding at his wound—because that's what it truly is now. It's settled exactly where Mjölnir had touched him. Angry and red, black towards the center, purple swirls in the outer layers— _extraordinarily_ painful even if someone so much as thought about touching it. When Bruce accounts that Steve probably had a least three broken ribs, he was already  _very_  aware of the damage.

Pain isn't new to Steve. He likes to foolishly believe that, due to his sicknesses as a kid, he has a higher pain tolerance than most—but getting smashed with Thor's hammer is nearly indescribable on a pain scale. He'd guess it's somewhere between the highest he can possibly count and dividing by zero. He forces himself to breathe in deeply, but it's like someone's shoving 50 or so cold knives through his side over and over and over. He cheats by breathing shallowly, cheats by telling himself that he's not as bad as he seems. Cheats because no matter how cold he's getting he's not going to ask for a blanket. Cheats because he's not going to close his eyes. Not with everyone watching. Not again. Not with hours slipping by with him lying there, motionless, and the room is slightly off center and Beth's out there somewhere.

It's nearly 3 o'clock when Steve's able to push himself into a sitting position. His chest and arms protest phenomenally, shrieking in weakness against the lightest weight, but he can't lie here anymore. He doesn't want to be still anymore.

He practices steadying his balance—which, in his opinion, isn't too noticeable—but moving with his right leg shifts his right side with it—and that almost drops him to his knees. A hand clamps down tight over the wound, forcing his shaking still.

"Steve, you're up." Doctor Banner's voice is calm as it ever was, but his eyes look suspicious. He's in the room without Steve ever guessing it.

Steve lets off of his side, glancing up, trying to smile. "I feel like I've been on that table for days." A hand through the sweat in his hair is so viciously damp that he has to do a double take at his hand. "Huh. I had no idea I could literally sweat bullets."

"Heh," Bruce chuckled. "It wasn't a pretty sight."

"Well, we can't all be Stark after a battle."

Another slight smirk from the doctor. "You shouldn't be standing. Really."

Steve flexes his hand, staring at it. Thinking. There's a way he can leave and it won't cause some big scandal. "Thanks, I got that—but uh, I honestly feel pretty disgusting lying in my own sweat for hours." Suddenly his eyes grow wide as the realization hits him. "Please tell me that was all I was laying in."

Bruce wipes his hands on a cloth for his glasses, worrying them back into place. "That's all you were lying in." He answers gently.

"Does this mean I still can take a shower?"

Bruce eyes him for a second, brows narrowing. "I suppose. But really, Steve. I'm being completely serious. Don't let it be long. We don't know what Thor's hammer does to people." His face darkens. "Well, people that aren't me. I don't want you getting needlessly hurt. And I don't even know about Fury's medication, for that matter."

"I'm touched Doctor, really. But I hope you know there's an method to how I heal. Cuts take minutes. Deep gashes an hour. Torn muscles a day, broken bones, depending on how large the bone or the break, a few days." Steve fakes a smile because his side feels like it's going to rip open if he stands any longer. "I won't be long. Thanks for the pink slip."

* * *

He twists the silver oval knob to the shower's head, and waits for some kind of relief. Quickly, it comes, the water pressuring spraying out hot and fast and it buries him alive in warmth. It nearly takes him down, trying to soak the heat into his bones, absorb it into his hair. The wound on his side throbs with every drop, but he stands, leaning against the side, pretending that this isn't how his morning actually went and he's fine and soon he can leave and see Beth and not have to think about three broken ribs or Tony's paranoia or  _anything._

He sighs, his forehead to the bitter cool tiles of the rustic red shower wall. He's always been a terrible liar to himself.

He misses feeling warm. To be able to escape the numbness of his skin and feel alive again. It wasn't good that he only felt if he was moving, if he had violent action, or if he was with Beth. And sleep. He hated sleep, almost as much as he wished he could enjoy it. But he hated how he rarely dreamed of anything—he mostly just woke up unable to breathe, twisted and confused and yelling himself hoarse over  _nothing._   _Why?_  Why was it  _always nothing?_

_I'm not nothing._

He chokes back a sob, so sudden that it scares him—delayed, his wound throbs, churning his nerves. He closes eyes and lets the boiling hot water run down his back, and doesn't picture Peggy's cold empty eyes.

He just shallowly breathes.

* * *

He wakes up briefly to the sound the hot water turning off. Alarmed, he limps to his room, locks the door. No one seems to know how long it's been. Not that he has a clue, anyhow, but still. He decides he has to try to leave. Now more than ever.

* * *

Banner was right on many things, but the most obvious is this:

the drug could barely last more than 30 minutes to contain his shaking.

It's hard to put on clothing without making sounds of vainly withheld pain. Quietly, he bites his lip hard as he pulls on the oldest pair of jeans that Tony had thrown to him months ago—luckily they're looser along the sides. That isn't so painful. And at least the rooms are more centered. Slightly. He stretches on a plain white t-shirt, snatches up his phone. He uses Jarvis to get a reading of where everyone is, finds an empty door, and is out into the snow. Soon he chooses a street, ignoring the stab in his side with every step.

His hand is shaking so hard that he's missing the right button. It's—it's  _some_ button on his blasted phone, he knows it is—Banner showed it to him last night, he's not a dummie, he couldn't forget so fast—but every button is leaving him more and more angry. When he stops to dial it by hand, he keeps misdialing keys. Nearly twice he mixes up Beth and Peggy's number together. Once he redialed Peggy.

Beth's number for speed dial on the phone is 11. He pounds the key twice by mistake before he realizes that it's ringing.

Once it goes to voicemail.

Twice he's told that whatever a voice mail box is, it's full.

A third time it—  
 _  
"Steve, you rang!"_  her voice is such a relief to hear that he feels light headed. Or maybe he actually is. He doesn't care.

"Beth, hey, I'm sorry if I'm calling at a bad time," Steve tries to not let his voice sound too jittery. "I was wondering, are you busy?"

The ice cream pallor of Cold Stone Creamery seems so loud compared to how Steve's talking. With Ronda sitting across from her, Beth leans over and presses her hand across her best friend's mouth.

"Busy?" She eyes Ronda, who grins under her hand, and Beth can feel the spit on her teeth—scrunching up her nose, she pulls back to see Ronda's mocking expression. "No, I don't work until tomorrow, so today would be great. Would you like to meet somewhere?"

Steve's eyes dart all around him, nervous of being watched, one hand pressed to his side. He spots that he's not too terribly far from Central Park. The park sounds empty. It sounds wonderful. "How does Central Park sound?" Stepping over a large gash in the sidewalk shocks his spine—he nearly trips over himself. "A-Alright?"

"Sure," Ronda's instantly more alert when she notices the small lines of distress on Beth's face. "Yeah, the park sounds nice. It's so pretty around December. How about I see you in 30 minutes?"

_"Okay. I'll be sitting at one of the benches."_

"I'll keep an eye out, soldier Steve."

His voice seemed hoarse for a moment, a sound that could be a laugh, but sounds more like a gasp.

"Steve, are you okay?" Beth asks sincerely. Ronda, on the other end of the table, frowns.

"Me? I'm—I'm fine. I just, um, got out of a tough gym session. Boxing, you know. Sore." He tries to laugh, but even that sounds tinny to his own ears. He wraps up quickly. "I'll see you soon?"

"Yes," Beth finds herself nodding without him even being near her. "Definitely."

_"Okay. Oh, and Beth?"_

"Yes?"

_"Thank you. Really."_  A pause.  _"Just thanks."_

"No problem," She adds, uneasily.

As soon as she hangs up, Ronda has slipped the bill for their ice cream. The two bowls sit in front of the girls—one Cookie Minster, the other Rocky Horror Picture Road.

"That didn't sound good, Beth." Ronda's eyes are digging into her, already stressing out. "I don't like this. I don't like that tone of voice you made with him. What did he say?" She picks up a spoon and thrusts it like a pointer stick at Beth. "And don't lie, please."

Beth finds herself staring at her still perfectly cold Cookie Minster, the green colour making her feel sick. "He sounded fine. At first." Her brows furrows. "But—I don't know. He…sounds upset. I think he's upset about something."

"Well I heard you ask what was wrong. What reason did he have?"

"He said he had a tough gym session. You know, how he works there and everything. He said he was sore."

"Sore," Ronda picks at word, digging into her peanut-chocolate-marshmallow-coffee-Horror-madness of an ice-cream, as if she could stab at the hidden meaning behind it. "Well, do you think he's lying?"

"I don't think he's lying, but something's wrong." Beth takes a small bite of her Minster. "Is it wrong if I'm a little nervous right now?"

Ronda's eyes leapt at her. "If you're nervous Beth, don't go. I mean…" Ronda's bottom lip sessions out ever so slightly. "I mean when you mentioned him going to war…his PTSD…I admit girl, it sounds…sketchy…I don't know if I want you around this guy anymore."

"Ronda, he just said he wanted to meet me in Central Park. It's a Tuesday, at 4 in the afternoon."

"I know it sounds innocent…but that's how the creepers get to you, girl. And…that sounds really bad, Beth. Really, really, creepy physcho murderer bad. A park in the middle of winter?"

"Ronda—" Beth sighs, because this is always a losing battle for safety. "Sometimes….sometimes you just need a stranger. Someone that doesn't know you, and can't judge you. I don't know. Don't you ever feel that way? And besides, I've known him for a while. We met months ago."

Ronda's green eyes bit into Beth's kindness. She held up a finger. "One time."

"And we've met again! We've gone out!"

"I know. Last night." Ronda deadpanned again. She pushed her finger out more. "One time."

"We've talked. It's going to be  _okay_ , Ronda."

"I don't know Beth…I have a really sick feeling right now," Ronda says quietly into her bowl.

"Me too," Beth adds, after a tiny pause. "Shit." She shakes her head, golden hair frizzing around. "I don't want to feel this way."

"Well….okay, how about this. I'll go with you."

Beth's baby blue eyes are mix of gratitude and consternation. "But—"

"Hold on. I'll go with you, but I promise he won't see me. I'll just be there just in case."

"Just in case what?" Beth asks, her eyes gathering the cold blowing of the snow outside their public safe ice cream coated world.

Ronda opens her faux furred purse, and with a flare of her ruby nose ring, she shows Beth her baby.

A taser.

* * *

_You,_

_Soft and only._

_You,_

_Lost and lonely._

_You,_

_Just like heaven._

\- The Cure, "Just Like Heaven".

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Well this chapter got...dark. I wasn't kidding about my note about "Poor Steve" last chapter. Ah-ah...HAPPY BIRTHDAY STEVE! *Nervously pulls at her collar.* You know I whump you because I love you. c: I hope everyone has a safe and happy 4th, if you're a cross the pond or wherever you may be, have a great day today! *Edited for July 4th, morning. c: I do apologize for my misspellings, and I do hope it doesn't take to terribly much again from the story. Thanks to the guest that pointed out some flaws! You're all welcome to point them out, as well! *Looks out at all the raised hands.* Erm, maybe not all at once!
> 
> Maybe let me know what you think?
> 
> Notes: In order of appearance:
> 
> Yes, I have NO idea what to name this chapter. Help?
> 
> Yes, I change tenses a lot for this story, and I PROMISE you that I'm going to clean up my act and fix the chapters. Seriously. I'm so sorry. I'm exhausted from exams and chugging out this lovely story that I'm feeling a little bit of what Steve's feeling right now. And it's mostly sweat. Sticky. Everywhere, oh god.
> 
> Yes, Tony is making a Young Frankenstein joke. God bless you, Mel Brooks, for being crazy and making a hilariously wonderful satire.
> 
> Yes, it does bother me that in the comics, The Hulk is the only OTHER being able to pick up Thor's Hammer. This bothers me deeply that this isn't carried into the movie, but I do admit that I smiled when poor Hulky couldn't lift it an inch. Kinda shows how badass Thor is.
> 
> Yes, [as far as I'm aware, anyways] I did indeed make up Ronda's ice cream flavor of Rocky Horror Picture Road. I thought it was clever as hell, and I wish it existed, because I would eat it all the time for the sheer pleasure of telling people that I'm eating Rocky Horror Picture Road. Am I the only one that thinks that's too much fun to say?
> 
> Yes Steve's own stress/wound/ and the Fury Meds are making him a little crazy. I wonder how THAT'S going to work out. It's why more run-on-sentences happen. I hope that comes across okay and isn't just my usual crap grammar kills. You guys are the best for sticking with me. Seriously.
> 
> Yes, we have two, count 'em, TWO rational female characters that consider the safety of themselves first, and are not completely self sacrificing in that sense that NO ONE IS ACTUALLY THAT SELF SACRIFICING in a realistic scale.
> 
> I mean, come on friends, we ALL love our super heroes but you gotta admit that from a completely outside perspective, they can be speculatively scary.
> 
> HAPPY BIRTHDAY AGAIN, STEVEVVEE.
> 
> StEVVEEE, I'm so mean to youuuuu~~


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Thank you for all who are enjoying! It just makes my life. Yess. Yess. Now go see what trouble Steve and Beth get into now. Oh buddy. There it is.
> 
> I needed you more,
> 
> When we wanted us less.
> 
> I could not kiss, just regress.
> 
> It might just be
> 
> Clear, simple and plain.
> 
> Well, that's just fine.
> 
> That's just one of my names.

Chapter 15: Wounded

 

He didn't have his watch.

He took a breath that practically choked the cold down his throat. Shifted in his seat, shoulders steeled at attention. The gnarled naked limbs laid low above him, frosted with clumps of crunchy hard snow. When he looked up into the branches, speckled by the setting sun, that bounded and leapt the alleys of New York City to touch the sparking crystals streaked across trees, they shimmered with a pleasant, twinkling rainbow of softly dripping colours. Light green, deep blue, tiny bits of pink, dabs of oranges sparkles all neatly melted together. The crystals bristled in the fading light, moving in with an irk like the hairs on a tom cat's back—the solider found he couldn't stand to look at them for long. The colours took on shape for some reason—getting longer, thinner, brighter. It made him dizzy. Occasionally, the dripping speck of ice cold water tapped at the back of his neck like an impatient stranger that wanted his seat. He jumped every time the exposed nape of his neck touched the striking chill. He didn't know why he kept forgetting about it. He rubbed at the pain tingling there. He really didn't care for it. He nudged at his phone again, hands wedged between his thighs, focusing on not allowing himself to shiver. He wasn't cold. He just really wanted to know what time it was. He just—Steve blinked, dumbfounded that he could just look down and—

He didn't have his watch.

Steve snorted in frustration, muscles tightening. Somewhere sharply to his right a quick jab responded—starting from his side and riding down his arm.

He glanced at his wrist again, rubbing there furiously, feeling pins and needles lace themselves up his veins, stabbing back down again. He was such an idiot for leaving without it. He just couldn't believe his luck of it all. He peeked at his other wrist just to make sure he wasn't entirely mistaken, but it was bare as well. He sucked in a deep breath, allowing the chill in his teeth to rattle down his windpipe, soaking his lungs in cold.

It was suddenly one of those days were minutes didn't seem like minutes. Steve palmed the sticky cellophane of his mobile, fingers tightening their grip so vigorously that, unnoted to him, the number 8 on his keypad was going to permanently stay embedded in its place. Heavy blue eyes shifted with every whisper of the wind, ever slight coo of a white pigeon hooved up in the sloppy branches of an American Elm. He rung the phone through his hands, wondering why it kept vibrating in his calm grasp. His fingers weren't shaking. They were fine. He tested them constantly. Another drip of water tapped at his spine, grabbing at the goose bumps in his skin, burning it raw like a long, thin icy talon slowly dragged its way down his back, and his knee jerked up in front of him. It was then he came to realise it was his knees that wouldn't stop shaking.

He hated waiting. He really, really did. He reasoned with himself that he just got off the phone with Beth. He went to—No, nothing is on your wrist Rogers, get a grip—and that was seconds ago.

He blanked, still staring at his upraised knee, and stupidly stomped it back down through snow under his boots. He twisted his neck carefully, eyes tearing though the slowly falling snowflakes to see if anyone saw him, but he found himself alone. Completely alone. Central Park gleamed on beautifully for blocks. Trees ached for comfort, thrown against each other, peeling raw in desperation for spring. He looked up. It was just Steve, the trees, and the sky. And boy, did the open sky go on forever when it wasn't nuzzled between the hard elbows of gargoyles and fire escapes that decomposed faster with every increasing floor.

Trees moved faintly about him, shifting gentle layers of snow to catch themselves on the light breeze that was tearing itself into Steve's side. He pressed down harder, a hand cupping along the blackened bruise that roared deep inside, rushing for his inner ear—sometimes his heart was so loud in his head he thought about screaming just to block it out. No one was around. There was no one around. He could scream. He could scream and scream and scream and maybe no one would ever hear him.

He leaned back against the wooden panels of the bench that tickled his back with frost bitten splinters, neck craned upwards. White covered all sides of him. Everywhere he looked it was blue and white. And the sky was so huge, so overbearingly wide, that he couldn't see it all at once—no matter how hard he looked or where or how quickly, the sky just wouldn't stop. He blinked hard, shuddering as another throb coasted through his body, washing his arms numb of feeling. He glanced at the trees, their colours, their movements—but it was moving too fast. He returned to the sky and its stillness. How could such a space exist here, still? Steve thought slowly to himself. There's too much of it, and New York is too greedy for space. It won't last. It'll never last. Nothing ever lasts.

He pointed a numb finger to the sky. When he was a kid, he sometimes wondered if the sky was the mass of God, or maybe just his eye. Maybe God had blue eyes. Eyes so wide and so vast that the Earth was a marble that he sometimes picked up and liked to play Ringer with it. Exactly with whom, Steve didn't know. Steve didn't know if God versed other beings in games with marbles—like aliens or Adolf Hitler, simmering somewhere deep down in Hell. Steve didn't know if God just liked to make bags of planets and marbles and circles of different dimensions, and maybe he shook it just for fun. And maybe those marbles fell to earth faster than shooting stars. Maybe those blues marbles hit young blue eyed boys like bullets that tore through the metal of their helmets and through the back of their skull that finished all their memories of childhood. Blue marbles that bounced off Steve's chest, but landed everywhere else. Because Steve couldn't win every single game. He couldn't defuse every single marble and carry men through explosions of glass and shards of blood and he couldn't save everyone. Someone had to lose.

But God never lost. He just played the game. He just changed the rules.

Rules that meant bullets could hurt Steve in ways that would never make him die, but drop onto his knees in the middle of prayer and sob into his arms until he felt as if he'd finally ripped the lining that held him together since the first time he held his mother's slowly cooling hand between his palms, pretending not to see the tears that dribbled down her soft cheeks, too young to wither away in dried blood across a white mattress, too young to leave him alone. Bullets that tore his father down, torn his friends away. Guns that helped protect bombs that gutted Steve's world, morphing it into breathless silence and death and Hell. Bombs that had labels and were packed onto carrier planes. Bombs and bullets and blue marbles that rolled around in Steve's mind until he wondered if he was just another weapon, too.

And then he saw God's eye for the last time in 1943—changing the sky into the sea.

And everything was white and blue—and he couldn't breathe—snow packing in around him, filling his mouth, his nose, his eyes. And it spun—and the world hurt, and the sky hurt, and the pressure shoved steamy water that tasted like sulfur and oil across his face, salty blood and tears into his eyes—The sky above Steve was falling down over him—and he could see it coming to finally end it.

It was ending all because blue eyed boys weren't allowed to kiss brown eyed girls. That was against the rules. And God's eye was watching. He saw it all.

A circle of icy blue hurtled down towards Steve's face, wet and cold and empty—and he screamed, long and loud, pouring from his mouth in hot, smothered words of broken prayers. He curled up, bracing his arms above his face—his side opened like a fire of unreasonable pain that left him breathless—but he yelled—scattering the snow doves and pigeons away from their homes. His throat blasted his cries until it was too raw, too cold to continue on. Steve didn't want to move his arms. He didn't want to look up. For all he knew, his world had ended once again and he'd wake up and he'd be alone once more. And this time no one would wake him up. And he'd just drift forever, unable to move, unable to breathe. Shivers rushed up his spine, rocking his body. He was so cold. He was so alone.

Then a chime echoed from his lap. The blonde opened his eyes as a warm red light brightened the barrier of his arms. A shaking hand poked at the screen, too nervous to even breathe on it. His phone read out two words:

I'm here. 5:36 pm.

Beth.

Steve's hands scratched hard at the dried frost on his cheeks, his upper eyebrow, unsure of how it even managed to dry so uncomfortably.

BethBethBethBethbethbethbeth, Steve chanted, fingers shaking so hard against the cold skin of his neck that his nails were starting to leave red marks that glowed like little beacons in the sugary, frost coated air.

He shivered, an arm leaning down to press tightly at the ache in his side. Between the thin fibers of his t-shirt, he swore he could feel an unnatural heat lifting up. It was almost like the wound was cauterizing itself and the triangular whips of wind curled up just enough to let Steve see his body at work. He stared at his phone—and suddenly, he wondered how long it'd been since he'd talked to her. Since that text had arrived. It was all so fast. All too terribly slow. He slowly looked at his bare arm, the hair resting there standing on end.

He didn't have his watch.

Then Steve's phone lit up like a firework, making him jump as rattled against the beaten wood like a skeleton's knuckled rapping on a door. He picked it up, carefully holding it to his mouth.

"Beth?" He didn't wheeze her name. He didn't.

"Hi! Sorry, texting is just a force of habit—I don't even know if you're able to get text messages. If I charged you, I'm sorry! I just wanted to make sure I found—you! Oh, God now I see you!—" click.

Steve's heart dropped hard and fast. The dial tone was in his head—buzzing, louder and louder—the last time he'd heard a dial tone, Peggy didn't answer. She didn't answer because she was gone. She was gone—somewhere far across the sea where another blue eyed boy was kissing her because life wasn't fair—70 years of him wanting to survive and protect against bullies, and life still wasn't fair—

"Steve!" Beth's voice echoed, botching off the bark of the trees. His blue eyes flickered wildly—don't look up—no, no, no.

He blinked and she was there, yards, feet, inches. She had jogged up to the bench, one hand pressed against wool of her skirt, the faintest curve of a kneecap poking out. "Man, I'm so out of shape—it's getting ba-ah'd." She huffed, sucking in a breath. She straightened slowly, tossing her yellow hair behind her in a hurry when she saw Steve just gawking at her.

"Hey," she offered again, her smile bright on her face. Steve blinked. Now she was frowning.

"Steve?" She tried again, her voice tight. "Hey." Warmth—Steve jerked back, pulling his hand away from her's as if she'd stun him. "Oh, ah—I'm sorry, I just. You were still holding your phone." For some reason she was turning red. "I could hear the dial tone."

Instantly Steve's fingers uncinched themselves from the base of his cellphone. He heard it hit his leg, but he didn't feel it. He swallowed drily, his throat aching with the effort.

"Beth," He managed to say, his voice slightly scratchy. He couldn't remember why. "It's nice to see you again."

That rewarded him with a slight worried smile that punctured her serious expression. "Yeah, I wondered if I'd be seeing more of you." Her red lips tightened over her final word, her blue eyes looking slightly doe-eyed. She took her time sitting down, her eyes looking over Steve's head, as if she was nervous about something. He certainly wasn't going to look up. Slowly, Beth leaned across, an arm maneuvering over Steve's lap to touch at the empty space to his right.

Her light brows furrowed. "You don't have a jacket?"

Steve jerked his neck to look at her hand, poised over his lap, touching the bare bench.

"It—it was really hot." He stuttered, his teeth trying not to chatter.

Beth raised an eyebrow. "It was hot?"

"Yeah," Steve nodded, which made the pins and needles return to his shoulders. Was it at his shoulders before? Odd. Slowly, his story was returning to him. "When I was working out. It was really hot. So I just took off like this."

Suddenly Beth's arm was back, resting in her own lap. "Right, right, your work out." She titled her head slightly, her lips pursed back into a tiny frown. " You sounded…sound…really stressed out. What…happened?"

A large hand tightened over Steve's wound, holding his shirt down. "I was working out with a friend, and I got careless."

Beth nodded slowly; as if she had any idea to what he was talking about, getting hit with the mythical being's hammer. Steve felt like he was floating a bit, but he could appreciate her attempt. It was more courtesy than Bucky would've paid him, back when they'd sit on cold park benches and Steve would ramble about baseball cards or four point perspective drawing. Bucky wouldn't take any of Steve's corny hobbies.

"Heavy hitter?"

Steve tried to stiffen out, feeling too saggy, like he couldn't hold himself steady. Like responding to the marksmanship of a master, Steve's side spasmed at Beth's words. Despite himself, he flinched.

"You have no idea,"

Beth's eyes grew surprisingly soft, and it made Steve want to shrink away. Because he was wrong before. So very wrong. It wasn't pity there. It was like her eyes had a way of just being there, not trying to pry—but it still felt as if she knew exactly where he hurt.

And God, he hurt everywhere.

"And…your face?"

Steve paused, forcing his eyes open through the pain. He nearly stuffed his fingers into the open maw of a wound in his side, just in a brutal attempt at stopping the warmth from leaking out of him. "My—my face?"

Beth's fingers raised themselves to her chin, gesturing with the edges of her nails—clear as ever. She flicked slightly at the sides of her face, above her eye, and then along her neck. "You have these red scratches on your skin."

Numb fingers felt along Steve's cheekbones, over the wrong eye, but he couldn't feel a damn worth of difference. "I don't understand."

"No, you're not touching the right places." Animated her hands were up—but she kept them at a polite distance. She glanced at her hands and into Steve's eyes. "Uhm, may I?"

Steve just stared at her, his throat raw, his side splitting. A few seconds marched by, and Beth lowered her hands.

"I'm sorry—that was dumb of me. To just." She glanced away. Loudly she cleared her throat. "You just look like you got beat up behind an alley or something—like some stubborn little boy." She laughed quietly, her golden hair twirling down her coat. "I just want to make sure you're okay. I'm honestly surprised you don't have a black eye to top off your look."

Steve hoped he was smiling. His teeth were pressing together so hard he worried they'd shatter and he'd start swallowing them. "Yeah, hah, that's the last thing I need. A shiner."

"Are you requesting me for back up?" She asked wearily. "I'd been told I have a good right hook." A pause. "Okay, well, I punched a guy once in my junior year of high school."

Steve continued to stare at her, for longer and longer periods. She shrugged slightly.

"And maybe I hurt my hand more than I did him. But damn, did it feel good when I did it."

Steve's eyes drooped slightly as she blurred out in his vision. He caught on to what she was getting at. "Oh, no! No, that's…that's okay. I appreciate it. I have no doubt you could hold your own. I just.." he floundered now, feeling slightly put on the spot. "I just…"

A cold drop spilled down his back and he shivered violently.

Beth's eyes were worried once more. "Steve—"

His wild blue eyes flashed to hers, seeming to pulse with pain. Instantly Beth wanted to back up, press herself to the edge of the bench. Whoah. Her heart skipped nervously. Maybe Ronda wasn't just being paranoid.

"Yes?" He breathed out the word. Beth noticed that his other arm hadn't moved from its spot on his side, wrinkling his t-shirt with a fist full of cloth.

"You're just wearing a shirt." Beth continued, her voice startlingly calm. "Aren't you cold?"

He wanted to say no. He wanted to say no so he could get up and smile and ask her to walk around with him and they could lie down in the snow and freeze together and he wouldn't die alone ever again.

But maybe that'd be taking things a bit fast. He hadn't even asked her to go steady yet.

Bu instead, he nodded. Slowly at first, and then he started to shiver right down to his bones—briefly he wondered if he was going to have a seizure—maybe he'd had one already, Steve didn't know.

He blinked. The first blink Beth's wool coat was off of her shoulders—she was wrapped tightly in two other undershirts made of something that looked unbelievably soft. His hands shook more at the idea of holding her. On the second blink, Beth, inches from him, was raising her arms to hook her coat around his back. It looked awkward across the broad definition of Steve's shoulders, but he did feel slightly warmer. If anything, that cold piece of hurt that kept dropping on his spine stopped its tapping. Steve breathed in her being so close. The cold seemed to amplify her scent—it smelted of something sweet—chocolate-y almost. He wanted more. He wanted her warmth. He wanted her. He closed his eyes, leaning in—

And, surprisingly, he touched something warm. Her hands. Carefully Beth had spread both her hands along Steve's jaw, a thumb stroking across the scratches there—now they started to sting, brought back to life at the temperature change. Steve was too dazed to think about pulling back. He seemed to just keep leaning forward, unable to balance. He threw out both his hands—one to the side to keep from crushing her. The other to wrap his large fingers around her wrist for support.

Letting go of his side wasn't good. A rush of cold air stabbed at this side like a knife going in a few random times, deeper with every jab. He hissed out in pain, his temples throbbing, the world spinning.

Beth braced herself against the bench, her blue eyes wide in panic. "Oh my God, Steve!"

Instantly he jumped, forcibly awake. He stared at her hard, pretending that nothing weird happened at all.

Slowly, Beth breathed out, and her warm breath mingled along Steve's mouth—his lips twitched faintly in response.

"Steve." Beth's voice was soft and clear, low in his ears. "I don't want you to freak out. But I'm pretty sure you're bleeding."

Steve's brows furrowed, and he weakly fought to cover up his wound. But he could feel something hot and wet coming out from his shirt, and he knew that was a lost cause. Slowly, he paled, his face still in her hands, and he prayed. This was the last thing he wanted. He just wanted to see her. He just wanted to be sit close to her, and maybe attempt to hold her a little. She was warm. She was so warm.

"Please." He whispered out, his voice frayed. "Please don't…don't freak out."

Beth's eyes fought between prying themselves from the dark, black-looking blood soaking through Steve's shirt, and his own eyes, wide and scared and wholly confused.

"Nice try soldier," Beth's voice was three octaves too high. "but I'm pretty sure I asked you that first." But she just continued to gap at Steve, and she tried to speak again, but she only managed to mouth the word 'blood'. She mouthed it again. Again.

One more time. Her shock wasn't going away in time soon.

"I'm okay with blood. I'm okay with this." Her voice shook slightly, sounding not okay at all to Steve, but then one of her hands slid downwards, a flush of warmth across his body—and she quickly pressed against his wound—"Ah—" she gasped, her own nerves burning up, she felt sick—"okay, you can do this," Beth's lips were moving too quick. Steve's head swam just to keep up with her. He was pretty sure she was the only person keeping him upright right now.

Slowly, Beth's fingers tightened against Steve's cheek, forcing him to look at her. Her eyes were light blue china saucers, huge, detailed with cracks, and unmistakably fragile. "Steve. Why are you bleeding? Did your friend do this to you?!"

"It was my own 'tupid mistake," He slightly slurred out against her, trying to defend Thor. He didn't mean to hurt him. Guy wouldn't hurt anyone. He breathed against her lightly. His lips were turning purple.

"Mistake." Her voice was even higher. It hurt his ears. "No, your mistake was to leave the gym and walk around in the snow and—Steve, why did you call me?" Beth shook her head violently, "Never mind—Steve, your phone. Who can I call? Other than 9-1-1."

He tried to shake his own head 'no', but remembered that Beth was holding on, and he only ended up nuzzling her fingers. "It'll heal up soon enough," He promised into the warmth of her hand, sighing contently.

Beth looked like she was ready to scream, her lips were shaking so badly. He tried to smile at her to let her know he was telling the truth, but it was getting harder and harder to talk.

"Steve, honey, I trust you. But you gotta trust me." Beth pressed again, harder, her voice sobering up as she forced every word individually. "Who. Can. I. Call?"

She quickly pulled away from Steve's face, reaching for his phone—but Steve fell with it, colliding against her body. He leaned into her shoulder—her body warmth was like a shock of hot water—boiling, engulfing, fantastic.

"Steve, no, you just can't," Beth strained, nearly cried, pushing hard against his chest—using all of her force to brace him back up—in all things considered, she got pretty far, managing to grasp the side of his cheek again, a thumb rubbing hard at the skin, trying to keep him awake.

And something snapped in Steve's brain—those hands against his chest—the sky whirled under his fluttering eyelids—shadows twisted and he could only think of how badly he wanted Peggy to fight him back in his dream..to prove that she was alive…and now someone was pushing against him…now he was going to sleep…but…but….

His eyes shot wide.

Peggy.

The silver swirl of the wind picked up, causing the hairs on the back of Steve's neck to tingle. He steeled his shoulders, leaning in, skipping the tight space between them, and their lips met in a cold snap.

Steve willed himself to stay, although the closeness of her face, the wisp of her shimmering golden hair licking at the side his face created a deep pit in his stomach.

And he knew it wasn't her.

Cold. Her lips, soft and firm, were cold. Steve grimaced against her, his own lips slack in surprise, cold flooding into his mouth—cold, cold, cold. He was kissing ice. Freezing down, swallowing powdered snow that over powered all of his will to breathe. He couldn't breathe—

Beth's arm tighten about him, and she pulled him close against her—the small frame of her body trying to hold them together—Beth moved with him, breathing hotly against his cheeks, his lips—pressing her mouth against his as if she was certain it was the only thing keeping him conscious. Steve went with it—a numb hand reached up, slipping through her hair, feeling the radiating warmth of her neck—he increased his need, his want for warmth—he was so cold. He was dying in the cold—He felt a sound close to his ear, almost like a whimper, of lust, of pain, Steve couldn't tell, but he just needed her so badly to keep him warm—someone, please—his heart beat out. His fingers closed tightly over the back of her neck and—he forced his eyes open, and found Beth's wide, and staring far away from him—she was trying to escape—trying to wiggle away but he couldn't unlock his fingers fast enough—he was freezing and hurting and bleeding and he wanted her lips against him again so it would all go away—

"Ronda—!" A blazing shriek lit up his ear.

A white wall of power struck him from behind—and he slid down into Beth's lap, all his strength gone—the world shaking, Beth's face phasing out—her face powder white. Her eyes ice blue marbles.

Thor always had a distorting feeling for when electronic pulses shifted through the air, no matter how small. He was getting better at when the human's mobile communicators would go off, as well. Just as he turned to announce its arrival, Natasha had opened her phone in a flash.

"Hello?" Her voice was practically mute in greeting.

A pause. Natasha's face flushed, her red hair seeming to rage against the taught pale of her cheek. Her lips pursed in, brows spiced. She spun on her heel, pacing effortlessly out of the room—shoulders defensive.

Thor's stormy eyes linked to the rest of his teammates, but each one read the same message: Something was amiss. Time seemed to slow, even as everyone made an effort to hide the drop in the mood. Tony twisted the cord of the fan, silver and post modernly bulbous. Clint continued to file his nails until his edges of his cuticles started to shave off. Thor stood solemnly, a Nordic statue in Tony's modernized gleaming kitchen. He knew this shift in tide before—humans were usually delusional and secretive when the matters of problems came about. Anticipation was never so indiscreet in Asgard. It was roared, shouted, thralled throughout the kingdom—for better or for worse. It was apparent that soon he would have to take it upon himself to find the err in the spy.

Quick precise heel clicks. Natasha was off the phone, but her gaze remained gilded in shock.

"Who was that?" Clint tossed the question lightly, but he tensed for the volley spike of a rebuttal.

"A woman." Her leeward eyes sealed to the screen, her fingers tight around the silicone, squeezing it inward with a powerful grip. "She was calling from Steve's phone."

"Steve?" Clint repeated, his smile sprinting from his face, replaced with the Hawkeye illusion of complete control. The nail file was forgotten. "Steve's asleep. In Bruce's lab." He eyed Tony ferociously. "How long as it been? Hours? He's been down for the count for hours."

Tony's spine was a rod taped to his back. "Do I look like his damn keeper?" Tony rolled his eyes at the ceiling. Jarvis?"

"Sir?"

"Where is Capsicle, in my Tower, to this exact second?" Tony asked slowly.

"He left about 26 minutes, 27 seconds ago, precisely, sir."

Clint had never seen Tony's face look quite so confused.

Slowly, Tony's dark eyes flickered to Natasha's, cold and calculating, already eight steps ahead. He cocked his head to the side, his voice unsure as he asked:

"And where is he now?"

Natasha's eyes flashed with a vain, mournful pain. "He went and got himself tasered."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything's gone white,
> 
> And everything's gray.
> 
> Now you're here, now you're away.
> 
> I don't want this.
> 
> Remember that.
> 
> I'll never forget where you're at.
> 
> "Glycerine", Bush
> 
> AN: Thanks again to everyone. I'm currently in the tidal of finals, so I apologize for my slow responses to thank you notes, but THEY ARE COMING, but look 'it me, pumping out a chapter! *High fives everyone!* You all make my life. c: Let me know what you think? Comments? Questions? Corrections?
> 
> I always, always imagine Beth's hilariously frazzled reactions to these kind of things. She's just like: "Oh awesome! I'll go meet mah sexy new possibly boyfriend Steve, get some ice cream, and then stick my hand in a bloody wound caused by the god of thunder. Wait. Wat. WHAT." OH BETH, YOU'RE TOO MUCH. It's not emotionally scaring at aaalllll. Everybody say: "It's a small world after allll- it's a traumatically stressful emphatic and claustrophobicly anxiety ridden tactile hallucination world afftter allllllll!"
> 
> Notes: Yup, Ronda's tazer was a "smoking gun", as I've heard it said in stage plays. Once the audience sees it, it's gotta be used. And boy. Things are getting interesting now...also, I struggled so HARD with the past tense of tazerd. It is "Tazered"? "Tasered?" "Don't taze me, bro!"? Ugh, words how do you EVEN.
> 
> Updated: 9/30 for typeos and the like: Thank you all SO much again for the lovely reviews! Seriously. So much. Please expect an update soon. Like night/tomorrow.
> 
> I just saw "Despicable Me 2" today. There were tazer jokes. A lot of them.
> 
> I laughed, and laughed and laughed.
> 
> God, I'm a terrible person.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16: Cessation  
AN: So I wanted to jump right into all dat Beth/Steve bonding and fluff. But then I realised that I had that "realism" and "character development" style going on. So. Yeah. About that. FLUFF SOON. BUT HERE. TAKE SOME DRAMAS. This chapter was getting too long to post as one, so I had to cut it. Stay tuned for part 2. (Thank you all SO much again. All those reviews and follows and favourites. I wake up smiling all the time. And that's probably terrible to say considering what I've done to the main characters of this fic. Uh.)

Cessation - ces- sa - tion - [se-sey-shuhn]

noun -

A temporary or complete stopping.

"Cause Jersey just got colder and

I'll have you know I'm scared to death.

That everything that you had said to me was just

A lie until you left.

"Natasha, how bad is it for damage control? Do I need to send in the Furies?" Tony baited, hands motioning the air to suddenly touch giant opaque squares that lit up a giant map of New York's traffic, live camera action rattling with tail pipe smoke through his clean kitchen.

"I could only hear two women." Natasha was already slipping on her knee-highs, a thick plain white knee-high skirt about her waist, electric pulse Widow Maker bracelets, insulated for the cold, tight around her wrists.. "The one with Steve's phone was named Beth. She was very hard to understand—but my GPS tracker says they're at Central Park. We'll be there in less 20 minutes if we leave now. I don't know anything else. There's no need for S.H.I.E.L.D. yet. It'll only cause a bigger scene."

"You have a GPS on Steve?" Tony's black eyes shattered through the film flying around his face.

"His phone. Fury's implement. I didn't care to ask questions for why."

"Because apparently Steve's got a quite a secret rebel streak. I'm nearly impressed. But Fury usually doesn't make that forward thinking of calls for any good reason."

Her hair tossed, brimming red, and she eyed the blonde God of Thunder's physique."Thor, you're coming with me. Now."

Thor's eyes settled on her, naturally pleased, ready to get out into the human world once more. "Shall I?"

"You hit him; I need someone to carry him, which could be used as a formal apology. It all works out. Stark, Stay here." Her eyes whipped to Clint's. "Barton, make sure Stark does as he's told."

"Excuse me?" Tony sputtered. "I'm not going to stay here while Steve's out there, pretty bobble headed hairs singeing with fire? Yeah. Bite me."

"We're leaving." Natasha shrugged into the sleek outline of her black leather coat, soft white fur curling up tastefully around her smooth neck line.

"Wait!" Tony barked, his black eyes vexed. "Wait! No!" His arms seemed to flop in the air, useless to him. "No!" He jabbed a finger at Thor. "Hammer Time gets to go, and I don't?"

Clint's cool eyes clicked to Tony's. "You're such a whiner, Tony. They're going to get Steve away from civilian eyes—it's not a field trip to the Radio City Music Hall."

"Please. I could snap my fingers and own that overblown Radio station." Tony quipped intrepidly. "You're telling me Thor gets to go into the public eye? Ppbft, start the Benny Hill music. I'd say we could slap a wing over him, but with those golden locks I'm pretty sure every hair dresser would swoon east of Hollywood."

"I know you never let anyone forget who you are Tony, but you do realise that if you're even 500 yards close to where Steve is, hospital, desert, or Antarctica, you'll cause a massive public stirring? Thor is subtle compared to you. And he can also lift, like, 3 tons and carry it for blocks. What can you lift, Tony?"

"4000—"

"Without the suit."

"197, at best." Pepper piped in, suddenly feeling as if she'd walked into a heated debate for gun control. Mass weaponized control. Steve control. Tony slowly turned to look at his witty, beautiful, and all too truthful girlfriend, his eyes spiteful. "And on a good day." She added with a clean smile.

Natasha's smirk turned gruesome, her teeth set. "Do you care at all about how Steve still has a chance to not be known to the public eye?"

Tony stared at her incredulously, like she just said the stupidest fucking thing in the entire world.

"He obviously didn't! Is everyone blind to that idea? Steve snuck out. The Golden Boy of America, stoned out of his mind, stepped out on us."

Clint turned to Tony, jaw tight, flexing his fingers across the counter. "Tony, we don't know how bad this is yet. Natasha said it was just two women. We don't know if this is just some kind of mishap. He's not bringing an army of horror on us—would you relax?"

"'Relax'?. Really, Robin Hood? You want me to relax? You ever been tased? It's not fun."

"I've been thrown through three windows and landed on a rolled ankle—you wanna compare scars, Stark?" Clint's voice rose like a wave over his sarcasm.

Pepper's face screwed itself up into disbelieve. "When did you ever get tased?"

Tony waved his hands at her. "Back in 93', it wasn't a good year. And another thing! I'm kind of an old pro at getting electrocuted. A lot." He knocked a tightened fist along the extension in his chest, slightly glowing blue through the pattern of his grey sweater. His scowl pressed hard, and his face read out clearly what Tony would never say out loud himself. Afghanistan. Instead he twisted his tone upwards and smarmily said: "Man of electronics and dead batteries, right here."

"My friends, I feel as if it is pressing of me to warn that we are wasting precious time while our Captain lies in the snow." Thor's wise rumble seemed to quell the room.

Tony was sparking where he stood, orange flit coasting from his dark eyes, burning with repulsion.

"Whatever. Freakin'—whatever. Goldilocks can lift up Captain better than I can. I suppose it is New York. No one'd look twice to see a grown man carrying another grown man down the streets. Bystander effect and all." He ran a hand down his face, rubbing at his tired eyes. He snapped his fingers at Natasha again impatiently. "You said a name. That name. What was it again?"

Natasha's brows pricked. "Beth."

"Uh-huh." Tony huffed. He glanced around suddenly. "Well…if I can't go, at least take these."

He shifted around, pulling open drawers until he found what he was looking for. A loose silver folder was narrowly tossed out from where he stood—then another—at Clint's face. Luckily he reacted just in time to catch them both.

"What are these?" The spy had to ask, although the answer was clear as day. Tony's paranoia reached stage one: homework.

"You don't have time," Tony titled his neck to edge back at Barton. "But he does. He'll read you some interesting information I've found about who Cap's spending time with, plus someone who also had an account on her computer." Tony explained briskly. "And don't say I don't do anything nice for Rogers. He's keen, I'll say it, but his head is in the clouds—even when he's not crazy off of pain and junk. He should know better than to go frolicking around in the snow."

Clint just looked one part amused, and the other half defeated. "What about taking things easy, Tony?"

"Yeah, Barton. It was easy. Good point." Tony's hands dived into his jeans pockets, fishing out dimes, screws, tacks—something that looked like a condom wrapper. Finally, between his forefinger and middle finger, he held a crumpled napkin. "Easy as hell when his room is about as hard to break into as an old gym locker. Looks like one, too. Completely unloved."

"His room smells nicer than yours," Pepper remarked from her stool at the kitchen's island.

Tony pretended not to hear. "I found this number. Hers. This Beth girl. I knew her name sounded familiar. I knew I hadn't slept with a—"He stopped talking, regarding Pepper's death glare with a kindly smile. He ran his analyzing eyes over the name once more. "What a romantic gesture—getting tased."

"Bring him back safe," Pepper's eyes grew light blue in sadness, tapping hard on the table top to emphasize every word. "I can't believe I missed all this morning's drama."

"Back here?" Natasha's eyes held the room to her suddenly. "I need to find out why he dragged himself, blocks upon blocks, through the snow to see her. I'll make the call on what to do once I'm there. I'll bring as much cover as I can." She snatched up a black purse, a wallet, a makeup bag that every Avenger knew better than to mock unless they wanted mascara that would burn the moister from their eye sockets.

"Force him back if you have to," Tony added. "Call me. I'll be happy to help out with that."

Natasha eyed him agitatedly. "You'll force Captain America back from what he wants, Tony?"

"He's a soldier. He'll take the orders."

Natasha's face looked sparingly sad. "I think that's the kind of handling that got us into this mess to begin with."

"No," Tony said, his jaw tight. "What got us into this mess was this." He held up the napkin again, twisting the thin paper as if he imagined it burning between his fingertips. "That's the whole problem. We need to fix it. I'm good at that. I can fix things." Tony felt his team's eyes on him. "For his own good."

"I certainly hope you're driving, and not Thor. I don't think I've ever seen him drive. In fact, I think he's a little weary of cars, ever since Jane's friend Darcy mowed him down like five times once. And, let's keep it that way, as I want to sleep at night."

"Just get to the files, Barton." Natasha retorted snippily.

"Alright, alright, jeez—" The sound of shifting papers. "Okay. Let's see. One Beth P. Ore. Born in Tulsa, Oklahoma, 1989. Single. Never married. Never been in prison, never been arrested. Sheesh, I'm already bored." Barton clicked his teeth. "Oh, here we go! Yah-wow. I'm glad I escaped the ol' 'higher education route'. It says here she's nearly 60 thousand dollars in debt just on student loans for her Geropsychology major." There was a faint crackle in Clint's pause. "Looks like a real trouble maker here, Natasha. I can see why Tony sounded the paranoid alarms."

"Spare me, Barton. Only important details. Recent medical history, deaths in the family. You're stuffing my ears full of meaningless nonsense."

"Yeah. Stark is often full of that. You ever listen to him late at night? Guy talks to no one all the time, I swear."

Natasha refused to respond, the speedometer rising over 70 miles per hour in a 45 zone. Thor's eyes grew slightly wider from the passenger's seat—his giant fingers tight over the upper handle bar.

"Riight," Barton continued on. "Says here…from Tony's elitist hacking skills that her most recent internet history consists of Hugh Jackman, The Phantom of the Opera Broadway tickets—and. Oh."

That peaked Natasha's attention. "What?"

"She's looked up just about every damn health care professional in the New York city area, and then some. It looks like she's had some type of… breaks downs. She had a tab on how to treat panic attacks. Her last job record consists of the devastation site—where Tony took the plunge." Another faint crackle. "Jesus."

"Suddenly you understand why Stark's delusions are turning up clues?"

"I never said Stark wasn't right. It just seems like this Beth girl isn't a master mind at busting our defenses."

"Yet somehow she's involved with taking down America's greatest war hero with just a taser?"

"Touché, Miss Romanova. Touché."

"And the other one?"

"Second file, right here. One Ronda G. Beauregard. Born in New York, New York, 1988." Suddenly Barton sucked in a breath, whishing his air straight into the mic like a punch to the gut.

"So. I think I found lil' Miss Taser, here. Classified run away at the age of 13. Boys and Girls clubs of American listings. Ah, looks like she turned it around—college at 23. Oh, of course. Same as Beth Ore's. Degree some unclassified Art deign, minor in Linguistics. Oh, nope. Fell off that wagon. Wow. Looks like we got ourselves a badass over here. She even has a police record. Says she's had possession of 'illegal narcotics', sneaking into clubs, scuffles with local punks. Locked up for 24 hours for biting some dude's hand."

"When was this?"

"Back in 2007."

"Well," Clint clicked over his bottom teeth. "it seems like she's the one that did it, if you ask my profession opinion."

"I didn't."

"And we have no idea which one of these chicks Rogers wants to bang?"

Natasha's green eyes glared daggers at the voice in her ear. "Barton, if you ever say that again, specifically in front of Rogers, I will make it my personal vendetta to see that you wake up missing more than a finger."

"Natasha—come on, I was just messing around. Fine, fine. I'll stop. It's just wild, ya know? Steve's sneaking out to go see this woman. She must be special." A thoughtful pause. "I bet he has a total fetish for hot ex-raider chicks. I'm calling it right here."

Natasha signed, motioning to turn off her head piece—when suddenly Barton made an uncomfortable sound in the back of his throat.

"Hm. This might explain why Cap was hit." Clint cleared his throat slowly. "I missed it, but there was some type of sexual assault episode. Weird part is that it doesn't say if Beauregard was the victim or not."

Natasha's question came slower this time. "And…when was this?"

"2005."

"She probably was the victim."

There was a tense silence between them.

"Ya don't think…that Steve…completely out of his mind on strong-ass S.H.I.E.L.D. medication, and pain, as we all know, like…attacked…someone."

"Barton, stop talking." Natasha's knuckles turned white over the steering wheel. "Just stop."

"Well, you sound sure of yourself."

"Are you not?" Her voice rang back like an echo of guilt.

"No…you're right," Clint consented through the speaker. "Tony's just…got me thinking all these messed up things. It's like we don't even know Rogers any more. Or what he wants. Or what they want with him." He swallowed quietly. "Two civilian women. Brutally damaged super hero out of time. Yup. Sounds like a normal day for The Avengers."

There's a forced cough on Barton's end of the line. "Natasha?"

"Yes?"

"You'll be careful now, all right?" Clint measured out quietly to her.

"Is that a touch of concern I hear, Barton?"

He shifted gears. "You got Banner's bloodbag for Steve, just in case? Stand as well?"

"Of course."

"Perfect. We're getting the make-shift infirmary ready. Gotta go."

Black boots crunched across the snow, muffled by the hum of traffic just a few yards down. Thor followed Natasha's lead, his weight sinking him through the snow with every footfall. Brown jacket zipped around the broadness of his towering frame, he had forced himself into a green sweater that Jane had given to him for his fourth visit to earth which read: "Starsmucker" in brilliant silver cursive across his chest. To this day he still didn't quite understand the humor. But it smelt of Jane and the drink of coffee, so for that he wore it.

Earth winter was null compared to Asgardian temperatures, where whole cities would die out in a single night of assaulted ice—but it was heavily insisted that he dawn earth apparel for the sake of identity. He laughed at such a jape—He was the son of Odin, bringer of lightening, and no puny human would ever laugh at him as they did before—surely all could know his name and see the truth. But Pepper gifted him with a woolly red cloth before departure and tied it tightly about his neck, and his question was never answered. It scratched his neck terribly, however, one look at Agent Romanova told Thor that his discomfort would not be a concern for a while. Natasha squinted hard into the distance, extremely aware of the pedestrian foot traffic.

"Tell me, Agent," Thor's dark blue eyes peered meaningfully at the snow. "The snow on Earth, it is purely white." He paused, leaned down, and scooped up blood red crystals between his fingers. "It is not meant to be the colour—what is it you claim it here—a kind of precious gem? 'Ruby'?"

"What? Rub—" Natasha spun wildly in confusion, but the sight took her breath away.

The snow was ruby. Tiny shades of sparkling red, frozen and sharp; blacken at their tips, soaking though, glinting grimly in the setting sunlight. It staggered itself in a straight line, occasionally weaving itself more left or right—but she tightened her fists at the sight. He left a trail for them in water and blood.

"Jesus Christ, Rogers. What the fuck were you thinking?" Natasha's voice echoed against the trees, harsh and grating to her own ears.

"He was not," Thor observed calmly as he kneaded the freshly bloodied snow out of his grasp. "He knew only what compelled him forward."

It was simple luck that they had arrived alone, her and Thor. The park seemed empty as the sprinted closer to their goal. All she asked of Thor is that he agreed to any human title or custom thrusted upon to him—if it came to any. Names weren't important. Just Steve's condition and crowds of people.

The area was secure when they found them. Two light haired young women, with a body lying in the snow just beyond the edge of a wooden bench. One of women had hands over Steve's chest, the other his side. Natasha nearly shoved one of them away from Steve, she was so livid at the sight—but it was obvious that yellow haired girl was crying—it was apparent she had been for quite from time. A hand flew to Natasha's purse.

It seemed like Beth blinked and this shadow of a woman appeared, grasping her hands and pulling her carefully away from Steve. She couldn't look away from the pain in his eyes—he was just staring up into the sky—completely catatonic.

"Ma'am, it's going to be all right." Something quickly flashed before Beth's eyes, laminated and stamped. "I have medical field training."

"Thank God someone's here!" The taller woman held tight against Steve's side, pushing in with more force than necessary—she was just squeezing more blood out. Her shirt was a tangled mess—ripped with nails to use as a make shifted bandaged that didn't last long. Thor took noticed of a wet blackened rag tossed into the lumps of snow.

"Are you—are you?" Beth's voice was struggling to escape her shaking lips. "I called for—"

"Yes," Natasha sank into the snow beside her, purse open, pulling out actual gauze, tubes, tape, and something plastic and red—a blood bag. "I'm the Natasha you called from Steve's phone."

More tears drifted from her eyes, a shuddering gasp. She held up her palms, bright red—Natasha's eyes raked over her quickly and took notice of just how bloodied she was. Her skirt, her legs, her neck, a spot in her shoulder—she was covered in blood. If someone saw her like this, it would be all over.

"Donald, cover her, now." Natasha nodded towards the girl in the snow. Thor did not respond to his new name at first, but quickly he was shrugging off his brown jacket. "Names?"

"Ronda," the snow-white hair of the woman before her called, fingers wet and dripping. "I fucked this up so much. I am so sorry. I thought he was hurting her. I panicked. I thought the blood was hers."

Natasha tried to ignore the blood pulsing out into the snow. She had no idea he had lost so much. What had he done? What had this idiot girl—Her eyes flew wide. Bruce had mentioned it before that Steve's heart was near palpitation with the jolt of Thor's lightening. Now he was hit again. Of course—his heart was thudding out even harder.

"My friend, Beth—she was just sitting there, and blood was everywhere—and he—he was gripping her so hard, I just—" Her voice splintered suddenly and she rocked on her feet, both bloodied hands pressed to her open eyes. "I'm so fucking sorry."

Natasha instantly went to work over the soldier's side as Ronda rambled on. A steel knife cut through the bare nothing of his shirt. Fingers parted the frost sealed to his angry flesh—she cut her thread and needle, and began coolly stitching up Steve's side. The second the tip entered his white flesh, she swore she could see his skin tissue vibrating—as if it was reaching for its other half. She blinked, and it was gone.

"What type of taser did you use?"

"A M18L. I bought it years ago—I figured it lost a lot of its punch—but his wound was already there. I had no idea he was already bleeding out. I would have never done it if I had known. But he acted like he didn't even know it—he wasn't asking her for help."

Beside her, the yellow haired girl just sat and stared blankly. There was even blood on her face, a strip frozen along her cheek. Thor leaned over her, his eyes tight—analyzing her for wounds.

"He grabbed her, you said?" Natasha continued, thoughts blazing through her skull. Her nerves raged in her arm. Steve actually touched this civilian. They actually had a reason for defense. She couldn't believe it.

"She made a sound like she was in pain. So I took the shot. That's it. That's the whole story." Ronda's voice was steadier now as she watched, amazingly, this friend of Beth's attacker lay stitch after stitch into his side.

"Shit," Natasha cursed. Her fingers shook the needle from her grasp. She pushed around for her needle in the snow, but it was gone. She reached into her purse for a new one. "It's too cold—my hands are freezing, I can't keep doing this here—he's losing too much blood."

She looked upwards her partner, her eyes guarded as she spoke directly to him. "He can't stay here. I know he's Steve, but we have to get him somewhere warm, and fast."

"Hospital?" Ronda offered, the word wisps on the wind.

"Not enough time," Natasha countered. "Not enough time to call for an a regular ambulance, either. We have car. We can move him—and we have the supplies." A hand tore at her hair. "I don't know what to do—we'll have to call F—"

"My apartment." Beth whispered softly. It was the first thing she'd said in what felt like hours. "It's closer than the hospital."

"What?" Ronda hissed, her eyes livid. She turned back to Natasha. "Beth's in shock. No, it's not."

Natasha's green eyes greedily flashed to Beth's, burning and burning and burning into her.

"You're telling the truth." The red head declared in a split second. " If we drive, can you take us back there?" She was already on her feet, Beth's hand tight in her grasp, aching her bones. "Th—"She flinched, "Donald, pick Steve up as gently as you can. We have to go."

"Beth," Ronda's green eyes were digging into the blonde's shoulders. "What are you doing?"

"I don't know," Beth answered her, her voice toneless. She looked at her hands, cold and red—like a dead body. She wanted to scream. She wanted to fall apart. She wanted to punch everyone in the face. "I don't know, I don't know, I don't know, I don't know."

"Thank you." The woman named Natasha said sternly. Then her voice became gentle, only it now seemed to be falling away. "You did the right thing by calling me. You're saving his life, Beth."

Saving. Saving. The words twisted in her ears. She took a step backwards. This wasn't saving. He was dying. He was dying right here in the snow. He was dying and she couldn't do anything.

She just stared at Steve—the larger man had picked him up effortlessly—and she watched his arms swing lifelessly through the air. Through the air. The air like other lifeless bodies had flown, torn in half—red and black and covered in smoke. All around her. She felt naked, although she looked at her clothes. She was covered in black frozen splashes of blood. Steve's blood. Her blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood.

"Beth!" Arms were around her, but she only felt a tightness in her chest that was crushing her lungs. She couldn't breathe. "Oh god, Beth. Beth, honey, look at me. Look at me."

She tried to, but she couldn't see. It was white. Everywhere was white and red. She opened her mouth and tasted clothing—someone had shoved the pad of a jacket against her mouth—she bit down hard on it—nails stabbing into a solid figure.

She knew she couldn't scream if she suffocated herself first.

There was a car. Explanations. The exchange of keys. The opening of a door. Flooring. Tiles. Carpet. People were talking. The woman, man, and Steve disappeared for a while into a room that looked familiar. Someone's hand was on her neck, leading her forward. She kept stopping. She didn't want to go into the darkness. Another door opened. Something shiny was in the corner. Her knees bent on their own. A hand held back her hair. Vomit. Water churned in a circle. She turned in a circle. Vomit. She looked upwards. The walls were a pale blue. Sea shells. Turtles. Vomit.

"Let's clean you up, okay?" A voice told her.

Okay?

Beth told the voice that nothing was okay. Nothing was ever going to be okay. But her mouth never moved. She said it again—this time her tongue moved. Her voice was raspy. That couldn't be her talking.

A silver nozzle. Warm water. A white bowl that stared up at her with a tiny silver drain. Someone's hands. Hers. Bubbles. Red. Red. Bubbles. Red. Red. Red. It wasn't coming off. Water. Hers. Yellow bile mixed with red. Someone was crying. Someone was screaming. She was pressed against the floor, tasting the tiles.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now I'm hoping just a little bit stronger.
> 
> Hold me up just a little bit longer.
> 
> I'll be fine, I swear.
> 
> I'm just gone beyond repair.
> 
> \- "Jersey", Mayday Parade
> 
> AN: I swear to God I'm writing this novel length story just so I could have Tony yell phrases the use both "stoned" and "Captain America" in the same sentence.
> 
> Thank you so much again everyone. You guys. Seriously. How do even I begin to thank? You know what to do! Questions? Comments? Anyone get some references I laced in there? ;)


	17. Atonement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 17: Atonement  
> AN: Let's see what's happened so far….Steve went insane. Check. The rest of the Avengers are on different opinionated sides of the issue. Check. And Beth's having a panic attack. Check. WELL LET'S GET THIS SHOW GOING AGAIN.
> 
> "The closer you get to the light, the greater your shadow becomes…"

Her knees where pushed so hard against her chest she thought she'd pop like a balloon. She'd flatten out against her bathroom door and cease to exist. It'd be that simple. If only she knew how to pop her heart without a sharp object. Damn Ronda. Beth wasn't sure if minutes or hours had gone by since she saw the ruby of a nose ring swinging back and forth, catching the dim light in the sparkling pale windows. Ronda had taken everything even remotely toxic or sharp away before she had left to "give space". Clever girl even took the Dove soap that smelled like mint—and now she had nothing to clean the smell of vomit that stuck to every pore on her body.

She hated this. She hated herself.

Beth's fingers crawled up her legs, towards her neck, feeling at her blotchy eyes. She didn't think a human being could physically hold so much water in them. She thought this would be over by now. She felt like she was floating outside of her own body, staring down at this pathetic person that was shivering in the dark. She was tethered at the eyelashes, minuscule black ropes that refused to let her go. She watched herself take a breath, and she was sucked back into the cage of her lungs, using her own hands to shake against the bars of her ribs to form a heartbeat.

She was going to start panicking again. She needed to get a grip. Soon.

She smacked her palms against the cold tile beneath her, wanting her nerves to tingle in shock, closing her eyes. She breathed again, waiting, rocking slightly.

There was something important that she needed to be doing.

Something someone had said to her, and now she was breaking that promise.

Beth thudded the back of her head against the wall, pulsing out thoughts, furious with herself.

Please. She thought, knitting her sweaty brows together hard. Universe. Tell me what to do.  
Please.

Her eyes burst open, the room tilted and suddenly she was sprawled forward with an epiphany.

"Please." Steve had whispered to her, lips chapped and broken blue eyes aching. "Please don't…don't freak out.'

Don't freak out. Beth stared at her hands, shaking them hard.

Don't freak out. She shifted up, hand against the wall, moving towards the flickering golden keyhole back into the darkness. Golden light reflected into her pale blue eyes. Her fingernails glittered against the door knob. She was blinded as she stepped outside of herself. She turned back, wanting to run again for the comfort behind her, what hollow comfortable arms that they were. Her shadow twisted with her, large against the floor, waiting patiently, thin fingers pointing at her, beckoning her. She pushed the door harder, forcing through. The shadow behind her was terrifying.

Don't—

Natasha didn't believe in God. She didn't believe in the childish idea of a savior, much less the idea of true love, or the comfort of family. The closest she ever gain for a home was her Russian inductions to espionage. Her training took no prisoners for a young child. No one taught her how to pin up her hair. No open arms stood her up when she fell—and she fell a lot. No one told her that ballerinas pranced on stages, and not frozen lakes—toes blacken from their will to raise her above everything else in her miserable existence. Death, winter and training were merciless. Other unwanted children would come and go—some never to be seen again, and she didn't believe that some warm and gentle spirit stole sickly children in the night and guided them, soaring, to the heavens. There was a time, however, when she wanted to believe that more than anything. She was not a bastard. She had purpose. She had ambition. She even had a bible—bent, and possibly stolen from the clutches of small skeletal hands that would not move to read it ever again.

But it was lost in the ashes of the hospital fire as well. That fire consumed everything about her adolescent life. Everything but her faith.

Her first murder pressed down on her. Her orders recoiled like the venom of a snake. One bitten, you could try to suck it out—lace it back through your veins. Again. The stroke of a knife to a throat—another man to bare, to bed, to bite. Eventually death became a force that she carried—ashes ribboning through her finger tips with every curdled cry for mercy. Orders again, and she left her country. Changed her name. Became deadly, feminine, and was no longer a scared, pitiful child.

Her name changed often. Her hair never needed pins when it was hacked with steel knifes. Her toes never arched for a spotlight, a light bruising of pink slippers, someone to catch her. She was numbed to her nature. Embraced to be raw and careful. She was, in her own eyes, disturbingly perfect.

Then she was told she could never bare a child like herself. Told by the Winter Solider, of all men that she did not kill.

Of all love he offered that she did not take.

Her faith did not crumple. It did not fade. It did not stop. It just howled inside of her, screaming, sobbing, until she burned her life down again.

Her perfection evaded the corners in her heart that she could not mend. And Natasha, suddenly, could not heal. Even when she tried, in vain, but she never ever changed again.

So she forced her own metamorphosis into a creature that was not reptilian. No longer would she willingly poison herself. She took a new code name that black listed her. Widowed her. She thought it poignant that it was devoured by its own young. Tasteful that they were cannibalistic. Cunning that they killed their mates.

A perfect killing machine that did not have to believe in anything. No longer people. No longer relationships. No longer бог.

She didn't believe that if you believed hard enough, pressed your palms together in confession that your sins were cleansed, and you would sleep for the first time in years that very same night. Nothing can make you pure. Only children are pure. Infants. Infants like her, born into shadows, tossed away towards the creaking floorboards of myriad Russian orphanages.

You can only be slighted. Only be beaten and reattached. Love was for children. Faith was for those that never had to peel the skin of their dreams back in the terror that there was nothing waiting for you when you woke in the morning. Or that all of your dirty sins were waiting for you when you'd close them forever.

She only knew that if you were careful, if you were lucky, you could be spared.

That was the only thing she thought when Steve's pale face twitched, slight blue slits opening, before closing again. She couldn't let him lapse without a cognitive check. The lightest push again on his side—and instantly he lurched upwards, mouth twisted in pain, his teeth stained with blood. She managed a tight lip scowl that threaten relief to her face.

"Schastlivogo Rozhdestva," She muttered, grasping Steve's shoulder to hold him steady. "You're alive."

His bright blood-shot eyes touched hers for only a second. His neck twisted wildly to look all around him. Tall ceiling. Something sinking beneath him—something soft and watery was covering him—he gasped, thrashing with his legs, a powerful kick shifting the entire chair away from the bedside leaving only seconds for Natasha to brace herself—only to find himself locked down hard. Extremely hard.

"I do not know the customary phrase to ease you, Captain, but I am prepared to contain you until you exhaust what little energy you have." Strong iron bars seemed to squeeze around his bicep like the force of a raging bull. "I am not so foolish as to underestimate your strength, as you did mine own. "

Steve continues to struggle, eyes to Thor. Eyes to Natasha. For a single still moment, it was as he didn't know them. Steve shifted against a pillow—tongue shamelessly checking his teeth along his shredded sore gums.

Thor's thick mane tossed itself in her direction, yellow, dim in the little moonlight through the window, which sometimes shifted red, and green from some distant Christmas décor. His face, as big as it was, masterfully hid his absolute confusion. Natasha only noticed his concern when he stirred quietly, the lowest rumble she had ever heard the God of Thunder speak.

"What act is Captain Rogers preforming?"

Natasha's green eyes flickered tightly, an unsettling pit opening in her stomach. She couldn't answer. She didn't want to think about it. She just needed him to stop.

"Steve." She grasped his large hand, squeezing as hard she could. "It's all right. Everything is fine. It's just Thor and I."

He froze slightly, blue eyes beak and scared. He flexed his jaw. His eyes lowered slightly—slowly, his fingers responded around Natasha's.

"You've been drifting in and out of consciousness. Do you know where you are right now?"

Slowly, he shook his head, making the room twirl.

Another breath. The real question. "Do you know who I am?" She bit her lip. "What year it is?"

Clocks were everywhere in his room back at the Tower, but here there was nothing. He looked. It was all cool shadows and blue hues. He didn't know.

"Nineteen." He began ravenously. Then he paused. Swallowed so loudly it made his ears ring. He was positive they could hear it, too. "2013."

Natasha could breathe again. She gripped his hand tightly, wishing she could honestly hug him.

"Nat—" His voice sounded like razor blades cut up his vocal cords. His eyes shifted again. "Thor. I—" A ragged cough pounded his chest—water formed in the ducts of his eyes that he couldn't force back. He paled further, matching the pillow under his head. A hand sloppily reached for his side, but he couldn't lift it all the way. "Haven't felt…pain like that…in a'while."

Thor's usually bright, expression filled face seemed empty in his sorrow. It didn't look right on him. "I am gravely mournful of your current state, Captain."

Natasha blew out some air, and let her hands turn Steve's wrist over, pulling slightly at the hollow tubes attached. "It shouldn't for long. I think this might actually help you this time. Maybe."

Even Steve scoffed at this, but it turned into a raspy cough. "That's one prayer I won't get answered." He grimaced again, teeth grinding. "Never has."

"What's the last thing you remember?"

Steve leaned against the pillows, wishing he could smother himself. "Somethin' about…taking a shower." His eyes narrowed tightly as he concentrated, but it left his temples throbbing. "Yeah, that's it. I was talking to Banner about having a shower and…I think I got one."

"You think?"

He blinked hard. "I sure hope."

A short pause. Natasha sighed out her nose, a hand holding up her chin. "Steve…that was a long time between now, and where you were."

Blue eyes glinted sharply through the shadows. "Were?"

His eyes tried to focus, but they remained shrinking from the slightest light. There were dark things along the walls. Dark tiny things that wouldn't stop moving. Spots covering and opening. He managed to make out some type of animal in the corner. A fake one. "This…this isn't my room?"

Natasha's mouth set itself firmly, preparing to explain, but Steve caught on faster than she could form words.

"That…makes sense. Looks…a little too…cuddly. Where am I? Sure doesn't look like a hospital…or a S.H.I.E.L.D. rest area…"

Her eyes remained as unreadable as ever. "Don't worry about that."

Steve squinted at her, back ridged against the mattress. He hated being played for some cheap idea that he wasn't wise to when someone lying to him. "Natasha. Where am I?"

The spy flexed her fingers against the material of her glove. "Safe."

"I get that—well, safe enough besides Thor bear hugging me till I choke to death. You know what I want to know. What happened?" Steve looked slowly around the darkness of some kind of bedroom. "How…how did I get here?"

"Well. You. Basically. You might not remember it, but you left Stark Tower."

"I—what?"

"And called someone," Natasha allotted gently. "A…a Beth."

Steve stared at her. His knuckles made hard rocks in the sheets. His breathing seemed to stop.

It might as well have. Everything was stopping for him. It took a lot to make Natasha feel sympathy for someone, but the way he was just looking at her…it was like he was being re-told he wouldn't see anyone he'd known from seventy years ago ever again.

"Beth?" Steve's voice rasped tightly. "How…how do you know that name?"

"She saved your life. You called her, and you both met but—"Natasha stopped herself. Complications weren't necessary.

He looked like a caged animal, his eyes were so wide. "Is…she…is she here?"

"She can't see you right now."

His heart gave a painful skip. He tried to rise up. "What?"

"Hey," Natasha's strong grip pushed him back down. "Sorry. I didn't—I meant literally. Well. No. She's….She's….in shock. The other woman took her into another room. She was having a panic attack when Thor and I finally got there." Natasha paused, her eyes heavy. "There was a lot of blood, Rogers. A lot."

"Oh my God," Steve's brushed at his face—something wet came away from his cheek. It was too dark to see exactly what it was. Probably blood. Mostly tears that he couldn't feel. He prayed he wasn't crying. He couldn't be. This wasn't happening.

"You were bleeding out for blocks. You fainted against her—blood got everywhere due to your actions and her own. No was one hurt."

"No one…was hurt," Steve repeated numbly. "Y'mean…there was a chance I hurt someone?"

"You didn't," Natasha urged. "You were just…well. We don't know what you were doing, honestly."

"We?" Steve's throat was sandpaper, turning his voice shrill. That had to be the reason he sounded so weak.

"All of us. Tony, Clint, Bruce.

This time it took even longer for Steve to respond. "Everyone…everyone knows about Beth?"

It was then Natasha knew exactly what Steve wanted to hear. She told herself it was for his own good. Possibly Tony's. Natasha knew Steve had been trying so hard to break free of his depression. Tony was a nuisance. Beth was a solution, perhaps. And Steve needed rest, not to worry himself sick if he possibly could any further. Further complications weren't necessary.

"No. That is between you, myself, and Thor. No one else knows. I was referring to your escape. Your location when we found you."

"Central Park," he whispered. He pressed a hand against his forehead, digging into the cuts that started blazing around the pressure. "Oh my God."

"Don't do this to yourself, Steve." Natasha's voice stayed low and crisp beside him. "You were hurt. In unimaginable amounts of pain. You…you obviously needed her for a reason."

"I was cold," Steve said lowly. He then chuckled—ratting his bones until they seemed like sharp stickers for a fire pit, digging into his sides. He wanted to laugh so hard. It was hilarious. This was rich. He chuckled again, edging on hysterics. "I—I called her because I was cold—isn't that the saddest thing you've ever heard?"

Thor's eyes remained calm, like the stars above New York City smog filled atmosphere. "I have heard more tragic tales. The only sorrow we see is that we could not help our friend."

Natasha felt the hole in her stomach open wider, watching him struggle to not to breath, or laugh, or cry. She reached up her hand and placed it gently on his forehead, feeling the sticky sweat drops beaming down his face. In the dark it was hard to tell, but he was burning up. Natasha flustered, dabbing at his face, the clamminess of his skin. What should have hypothermia to a normal person, if not death, turned into a full-fledged fever.

Without a word she injected the morphine pack, hooking it through the IV and blood bag strung tightly to the thin silver stand next to the bed. If the morphine, fluids or blood pact had any true effect on him, she would instantly know he was worse off than originally thought. Damn Thor's swinging arm.

"Steve, "She had to fight to get his attention—he was looking everywhere; his eyes glowing frighteningly with alarm. "Do you still feel cold?"

He swallowed the shard of glass caught in his throat, slicing him open from mouth to chest. "I always feel cold."

"Why don't you lay down, okay?" She resisted pushing him back. It probably wouldn't have moved him an inch in this state. She'd have to talk him down. She hated this. She hated showing this side of herself.

He shivered, staring hard into space, not quite listening. "Steve?"

Then he slowly looked at her, his eyes slightly off. "Natasha, please tell me one thing. Where am I? Really?"

He sounded so desperate. Natasha forced herself to pull sheets over him, knowing it wouldn't do a damn thing to help him. She probably couldn't do much more for him. Not even the morphine. She could still see the fiery rage of pain shooting through his eyes, his limbs jumping in twitches and stalls.

"You're safe. In a bed. You need to lie down." She was so bad at this bedside manners bullcrap. Where was Doctor Banner when you needed him?

Delayed, he nodded, easing back down.

"So…so I'm not going back home?"

A thin piece cracked off and sank into the jaws inside of her, nibbling, slowly taking her down with it. The red-haired spy had an answer, a voice, a method to work any conversation her way, but she didn't know what home Steve meant anymore.

Her emotional spectrum shorted out. She should be saying more. She could lie for a single moment of peace for him. She was a master at deceit. She could do anything she wanted. But Natasha Romanova only stared at the torment in Steve's eyes, unable to fight it with any of her skills. She was defenseless against his fear.

"No," Natasha whispered, slowly. "I'm sorry."

He paled, turning whiter than the sheets, the darkness making his blue eyes fade out like the final stars before it's covered up by city lights. His blond hairs seemed grey in the passing moonlight. He looked up at the ceiling, his blinking becoming slower and slower. He kept shivering, knuckles tight across the sheets, balled up around him, completely uncomfortable with all those eyes on him. Suddenly, a massive shudder ripped through him, knocking him out completely—Natasha gasped, reaching out—but Thor stopped her. One hand was to hold her back. The only was wrapped around the morphine pack. A slight indent was in the bag from where he'd squeezed it.

Beth sat herself on her black leather back of her sofa, a mug with a steamy spicy steam rising from it shoved into her hands. They'd stopped shaking. Soon her legs did as well. She was warm, although Ronda continuously paced from room to room as if she was waiting for the proper moment to pop out from behind a door and yell: "ah-hah!" at the strangers within Beth's bedroom. Although, they weren't so strange anymore. Ronda had explained to her, begrudgingly, that the red head, Natasha, was also recently returned from her station, specifically trained for medical field emergencies and equipment sabotage. The large muscly dude was foreigner from somewhere off the European coastlines. A gym partner to Steve's training rudiments. When she asked about Steve, Ronda only became surprisingly quiet.

Eventually Ronda perched herself on the couch arms. Her green eyes glance offhandedly to Beth. "You okay, Princess?"

Beth watched the ripples in her cocoa. "More or less, I suppose."

"I'm sorry," Ronda said quietly, her eyes tight on the floor. "I'm so sorry I couldn't do more for you."

Beth shifted uncomfortably as well, fingers tight over the handle. "You did everything for me. Thank you. Really. I'm…m' sorry you had to see me like that."

Ronda smiled ever so slightly, trying to lighten the mood. "I've seen worse. I've seen you wasted."

Beth resisted the urge to chuck her hot liquid at her newly found red ring target, charging for a subject change that didn't involve rehashing the talk of therapy, Baker Act, or dysfunctional. "At least I'm not as obnoxious as you are! Karaoke night? How many times can you shriek out Journey?"

"I won us a gift card to Applebee's."

"Which you said was 'mainstream garbage" and you chucked at the MC."

"Huh. That's what happened to it?"

The door opened just out of the corner of Beth's eye, and she froze. Ronda stiffed up, her chin raised. She crossed her arms, her legs. Then decided she couldn't stand in the room any longer. She passively looked to Beth as she made for the kitchen, her eyes dark with warning: this is so fucked up.

In a more coherent state, Beth instantly decided that Natasha was probably the scariest women she had ever met in her life. Her dark eyes sized Beth up with a single look, razors to her skin. She felt sick all over again. She had trouble remembering how to properly hold a mug. Or take a sip, for that matter. It just seemed to splash at her face, completely missing her open mouth.

"Beth," Natasha held the young woman's name in her mouth, grinding it against her bottom teeth, her eyes tight. Cold gems twinkled from the auburn haired spy. Beth tried to best not to just look at her and cry. Her eyes hurt from crying so much. They leaked fear. "How are you feeling?"

"Better, thanks," Beth mumbled, her lips tight. She didn't care at all for pleasantries. "Steve—how—"

"Asleep. He'll probably be for a few hours, we think."

It was then Beth took notice of the tower that was her friend behind her. It was strange that a man with such grit could appear to blend in so well.

"Oh," She sighed in relief. "That's good. That's good…right?"

"Yes," it was the first positive thing she'd heard Natasha say. "It is."

"Will he be staying? Will…you two? You're welcome," Beth added, as an afterthought for their keeping, trying to make her tone pleasant, but that was hard. "if you want."

Something flashed behind Natasha's eyes. Something lurking. She felt like an insect pinned, fascinated by the light in her eyes. The secret answer to her question. A hand felt at Natasha's chin. She turned on a short heel to speak with her comrade's eyes—soon she faced back again.

"It is a consideration. Considering his condition." Her eyes studying the apartment, location, Beth. "And if you can accept something from me."

Beth swallowed hard, cocoa searing her throat. She placed the mug at her feet just so she wasn't tempted to do that again. "What now?"

"Feel this." She walked so quietly Beth had trouble taking notice that she had moved at all. She placed something cold and heavy into her nervous hands, and carefully coiled her long fingers around the blonde's. "Do you feel this?" Beth just stared at her in disbelieve. Natasha tried not to demand more from the tragic child. She was giving them so much without even realizing it. "Do you?"

Muscles hardened against Natasha's hand. "Wh—what is it?"

"If you want Steve here, this is going to protect you." Natasha shook their hands carefully. "Think of it as a simplified version of a panic alarm." Slowly, Beth felt the entire boreing down force of stolid green emeralds glittering fathomlessly at her. "If you feel threatened. Ever." Heavy, the eyes stole from her face and turned to stare at her bedroom door. "If Steve wakes up and starts to scare you. If you feel the slightest moment of discomfort you will promise me one thing. You will trigger this device. It will handle everything."

Beth swallowed, trying to keep her lips from trembling. She pushed the square thing back into the other woman's grueling grasp. "I don't want this."

"But you want this man in your home, correct?"

"I—" Beth glanced at her bedroom door. "I—"

"Yes?" If this woman's eyes could burn, Beth knew she'd be a statue of ashes. "Or no? It's a simple question."

"I—I—don't know! He called me." Beth lashed out, bracing her knuckles against her temples, pushing in, trying to make it all stop. "He called me." She repeated again, slowly. "You're his friend. He should have called you. He could have called anyone else—but he came to me." She clasped the raw red-dyed skin of her palm over her lips, holding her words back. Too many questions—but all she could do was mutter: "You know him a thousand times better than I do." Beth paused, gathering her courage to look Natasha full in the eyes.

Frustratingly, the woman before her never seemed to blink. Beth dug her nails into her cheek.

"Do you think he'd want to be here? With me?" She sniffed into her palm, covering her inflamed nose, burning from the liquid that wouldn't cease. "You saw me earlier." Beth's blue eyes sank. "I don't think I can help him. I don't know the first thing about medical previsions. What if something happens? …I'll—" It all flashed before her. Her leading him to sit beside her at the 3-D booth. The screens roaring loud, pouring all sorts of violence across the screens. An expulsion of bright, blistering orange that rocked them both. The fear locked across his features. And all she did was panic. All she did was apologize.

Apologizing wouldn't save him now.

"I know I'd be useless." She finished quietly.

The fire behind those hard eyes seemed to die down, if only a little. She considered this for the briefest of seconds—her response flawless, yet slightly withdrawn. "He is stable." Natasha debated the best way to lay out Steve's damage to the civilian. He would heal so fast—she couldn't say anything was broken—hours from now it would be spit, melted back, perfectly formed like a seamstress's needle work across his organs. "He will recover quickly." She decided weightily.

Her eyes flickered all around Beth's face, almost as if she was painting a bigger picture with just her irises. Beth could only cringe at what this woman must be seeing on her.

"Steve has a knack for pushing himself until he breaks. He is stubborn. But so is his body. He's no longer hemorrhaging internally. He is just very badly bruised. He checked at a walk in clinic before meeting you. We have records of a medication that thinned his blood when he received it there. It explains his…behavior. All he needs now is someplace to be. Preferably where he won't move. But we cannot stay. But I think this is for the better, honestly."

Beth just continued to breathe at her, ribs shuddering. How does that make sense?

"I can see the distrust in your eyes, Miss Ore—but I'm going to make a call and say that for the best it's—"

"And can you blame her?" A furious voice snapped from the darkness. The other woman with a ripped t-shirt haphazardly forced into shotty jean jacket, torn at the cuffs. She planted herself next to Beth immediately, one arm about her shoulders, crushing her hard into her chest. "He was bleeding all over her."

"If he had known of his injury, he would have never walked out like that. He was extremely drugged by the—"

"Oh but he did, didn't he? 'High out of his mind' is some excuse? Asking Beth to meet alone in Central Park? What kind of a person does that? Where were you two to help him?"

"We were not told. If we had known of this, this would have never occurred. And for that, we are sorry." The man's voice rumbled, distinctly upset. "But the issue stands for Rogers's safety. He does not need hospitalization. However, if he must be moved, it will be a large burden for not only myself. He had lost a lot of blood. Thusly, I cannot take him without some cause for a grand emergency. If I do this, I only feel it would add more stress onto him." His stormy blue eyes studied Beth in acute concentration. She felt a tiny tingle on the back of her legs. "And for your companion."

Ronda's eyes narrowed dangerously. "He shouldn't be here. He should be in a hospital. Maybe a mental hospital. I don't know, and frankly, I don't care. I don't know if you can see this, but he forced himself on my best friend and then bled all over her. Of course she doesn't trust you! I don't trust you. I don't trust him." Her stark white hair swirled as she gawked at Beth. "I have no fucking idea why Beth's even putting up with your bullshit! She's lying to you, Beth! This is wrong! This is some fucked up joke. He can't stay with you. It's bad enough he even knows where you live! Does anyone in this room have any common sense?"

Natasha didn't even bat an eye at Ronda's outrage. "It appears your friend is quite hysterical."

"I'm hysterical? I'm hysterical?" Ronda's fingers splintered outwards, digging into the arm of the black leather couch. Her voice lowered frantically. "Did you not watch me drag Beth to the bath—?! Listen here, sister. Beth's been through a lot. A fucking lot. The Battle of New York? She was in the middle of that clusterfuck—and bless her freakin' heart, she's still recovering from it. Do you think she needs this right now? Some guy that's lying in her bed, bleeding black over her comforters? Are you insane to think I'm being unreasonable right now?"

The tall broad guy—his name escaped Beth's memory—cut in fast. "I, for one, completely understand where it is you are speaking from. You are deeply concerned for your friend. You are being brave about this when you see your friend is emotionally weak." His dark blue eyes made the hair on Ronda's neck rise, like she was about to touch a metal bar seconds before an static shock met her fingertip. "But you are forgetting that it is not your decision to make. It is your friend. You can only voice your opinion, and then must resolve to silence."

"Give me a fuckin' break—"

"Do you respect your friend?" The richness in his voice thickened, seeming to boom in challenge. "Would you step down if you knew, in your heart, that was her final answer, whether you disagreed?"

Ronda's brows fluttered forward spitefully. "Who are you?" Ronda's green eyes leapt for Beth's, huge and desperate for the slightest idea that she wasn't just being a bitch. This was crazy. This was disturbingly crazy. "Beth—of course I respect my friend. But respect won't stop men from hurting her. Respect won't stop anyone from hurting her!" Ronda bristled. "In fact, it's that same idealization of respect that burns this whole damn city down to the ground. It doesn't exist here. It's a goddamn lie that gets girls cornered and raped."

Something ancient seemed to groan behind the long hair man's eyes. "I find it shameful that you would group all men into such a category. I can assure you entirely that Captain Rogers is none such of an evil caliber."

"Captain?" Ronda sputtered. "He's—a what?"

"Military grade, he means." Natasha thrusted in quickly, her voice melting into the statement, tasting not so fully like a lie.

"He's a captain," Ronda muttered, her eyes watery around the edges from yelling. "Then why is he here? Why was he discharged?"

"He was never discharged." Natasha's voice flatted darkly. "He took a leave from his command—there was a re-call of strong personnel after The Battle of New York. He is very highly respected."

"He has PTSD." Ronda admitted, bracing for their reaction to that. Beth's hand was suddenly strongly in Ronda's grasp, and she pulled Beth closer to her. "Beth saw this. Don't even try to tell me it's not true."

Thor and the spy exchanged one quick sharp look. One came away grim. The other sighed.

"Steve…is a good man." Natasha's lips fought to say those hidden feelings she felt. It was hard, so hard to pry them from the depths of her deaden emotional spectrum, but she had to be clear. "But he's not perfect. He suffers from what he's seen, what he's done." Natasha explained coolly. "But he would never hurt a kind person. He just…needs someone new in his life." Natasha gestured to Beth, pressed into Ronda's shoulder. "Someone, perhaps, like you, Beth. I think that would help him very much."

Beth swallowed thickly, her eyes still stinging. "I have…I have it, too." She motioned to the door, back to herself as if that explained what she didn't want to say to these strangers, to her best friend, even though they all saw her shame. "I understand what he feels. Maybe." Her voice got small. "To some tiny, tiny degree."

The auburn spy's lips seemed to press harder against one another, her green eyes masterfully gazing at the two women before her. She wasn't lying. Stark was right. Computer history and all. But still, she had to test her. "Have you sought help?"

"I'm planning on it. Sometime soon. I got busy—I—" Beth paled. "I. Well, I had a date."

For some reason, this created the sharpest of smiles across Natasha's face that Beth had ever seen. She swore that if she saw that auburn woman kiss a man right then, he'd shred himself to death on her lips.

"It's settled then. He stays for the night. You have the panic button. You have my number, and Donald's." Natasha's stone eyes set themselves to Thor's ever so slightly, but the Asguardian did not reject his fake title.

"She didn't say anything yet, Natasha." Ronda hissed, her eyes clouded in disdain.

Finally, Natasha blinked, almost as if Ronda's voice had slapped her. "Well, Miss Ore?"

"Ah—" Beth fingers curled tight around Ronda's, watching her best friend side her thumb over her bloodied knuckle. She swallowed. Tested her voice. Now she was biting her bottom lip. In her other hand, she felt the smooth cold plastic of the panic button—fragile and vastly omnipotent. Why would I need to use this? Who are these people?

"If he needs me. If he wants to be here," She agreed meekly. "I…I think you have a point. All of you. But I want Steve to stay with me. I'll…I'll try to watch over him. I'll keep the button on me—" Her eyes flocked to Ronda's shocked gaze, feeling her stomach twist. "And my cellphone. At all times."

Ronda merely shook her head, hard. "I'm staying with you, then."

"No." Beth exclaimed so loudly that she made her friend jump. "I…I have to be brave by myself, at some point, Ron. You can't keep protecting me from everything. I've never faced my fears like this before. So close to home."

"But now this is inside your home," Ronda pointed out with a sigh.

"And the rest of them are inside me," Beth defended shortly.

She could feel Ronda's solid stare moistened—soon tears where there. Real, genuine, frustrated fear. Confused but completely honest in the sense that she just wanted Beth to be okay. Because she hadn't been for a long time. And now she was watching her best friend fall apart on the daily. Or worse, pretend it wasn't happening.

"I don't know what you're thinking right now." Ronda said softly, her voice edging on waterworks. "But if that's what you want…" She huffed defeatedly. "I'll do it. But only for you. And you're going to have to compromise with me here, Beth. Something. It can be simple. Just to let me know you're still breathing."

"I'll text you. Every hour."

Ronda's green eyes steeled into that promise. "Fine. You got that? Every hour."

Blue eyes stared at their bedroom, feeling its weight holding her to the earth. The smooth surface of the square press-button airy in her palms. She felt the eyes of the two perfect strangers and her closest friend's on her back—unspoken, letter heavy wars colliding in the silence between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "But don't be afraid. And remember…you hold the mightiest weapon of all.
> 
> So don't forget:
> 
> You are the one that will open the door."
> 
> \- Kingdom Hearts
> 
> AN: Nice, Agent Romanoff. Very nice. Although I can just picture her face throughout this scene where ever Thor decides to let more information slip. I can only imagine her giving him the evil eyes motioning for him to get a nice, tall glass of shut the fuck up. Seriously.
> 
> So what happened in this ridiculously long chapter? We got some Winter Solider mentioning! Did ya catch it? It's a quick one! Huh. Oh! It was also brought to my attention that I have a lot of pseudo-viewpoints going on in this crazy story. I'm terribly sorry if that's distracting to you lovely readers, and I promise that all viewpoints that are not Steve or Beth's do have….well, points. And character development, because reasons.
> 
> Further notes and Translations:
> 
> 'Бог' is God in Russian.
> 
> 'Schastlivogo Rozhdestva' is 'Merry Christmas' in Russian. I chose to write it phonically instead of textually for dialogue sake. Now you can go around saying Merry Christmas to your friends in Russian! READING RAINBOWWWWWW.
> 
> And yes. She's being facetious . I always thought it was interesting that Natasha's name is usually given, in Russia, to girls born around Christmas time. I can't tell if awkward or ironic.
> 
> BETH AND STEVE NEXT CHAPTER WITH NO MORE OF KAY'S CLIFFHANGER AND EXTRA CHARACTERNESS. YAYYYY~


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Thank you, thank you, thank you! How about some romance? Ah well, ya'll know me by now. It's not always as it seems. But things got tragically adorable, all I'm sayin'. Be sure to check out my authors note towards the end, if you'd be so kind. Ya'all make my existence as I slide around my house in happiness. Warm wishes to all~
> 
> My life has been such a whirlwind since I saw you.
> 
> I've been running round in circles in my mind.
> 
> And it always seems that I'm following you, girl.
> 
> 'Cause you take me to the places that alone I'd never find.

Chapter 18: Warmth

 

* * *

Soft footfall dribbled along the carpet, and Steve's ears make sure he is aware of every movement. He forces himself to continue to breathe evenly. So far, it's the only thing he can do that doesn't hurt.

Then the sound stops. There is silence for the longest time, and Steve drifts backwards, unconsciousness calling to him.

* * *

The next time, it's a voice.

"…I just…why…happened…"

Steve's eyes crack open only for a heartbeat—trembling with the effort. He knows that voice. He just wishes he could understand what's being said. It's whispering to him, a hair's breadth away from where he should be returning towards. His lids give out. He's gone again.

* * *

A ringing chimes from along the floor. It sounds familiar…like someone is calling him from far away…

His eyes open.

It stopped.

_Beth._  Of course he knew her voice. His lips twitch into a frown. Why's she here?

Nothing makes sense. And he is too tired to attempt to figure it all out.

His eyes close.

* * *

There's a soft voice somewhere to Steve's left, but even with his eyes closed, he feels like he's continuously spinning in a slow circle. He flexes his right arm—but it's tethered tightly under the watery surface that's pulled over him. He can't move. He tests the rest of his body only to find his limbs, including his ankles, are strapped down. He tugs again discreetly as he can, a dull sense of being watched soaking over him, but it won't give. He's too weak.

The voice stopped.

_Beth._

Steve suddenly stilled. His eyes burn, stinging at the corners like he's bawled himself raw. His mouth is so dry he thinks that he's made of sand. Swallowing is a nightmare all its own.

"Steve?"

He can't face this yet. He wants three more chances to take Thor on again. He wants to keep pretending he'll wake up in Doctor Banner's lab. The gym's floor. Heaven. Anywhere but here.

"Steve…?" The voice, painfully quiet, sounds hurt for some reason. His eyes burn while his body freezes.

Quickly, Steve tosses his head away, sprawled out along the bed—his eyes still closed, face forcibly relaxed, but he knows he's a terrible actor. He can't pretend to be asleep much longer. He's surprised he's fooled her for this long.

"Right," She decides to herself. It's the faintest of sounds, but he can hear the soft pattern of the pads of her fingertips running over something that sounds hardy—almost as if it's giving her resistance. "Okay."

Something is placed carefully along the small nightstand next to him. He's surprised when he doesn't leap at the sound so close to his head.

She sighs, and it sounds relieved. "Just holding that thing was scary enough," She mutters. Fabric is shuffled. More skin rubbing together, her fingers interlinking themselves.

There is a steady thrum of her breathing—sometimes she doesn't inhale all the way, and it breaks the airy, soundless arrangement.

"If you can hear me, Steve, I just want you to know that—that I'm sorry."

His fingers twists the sheets self-consciously, the burn of shame leaks along his neck; The closest to warmth he's felt in what feels like days. The room pelts him in circles of nausea, sweat beaming down his skin.

_What have I done?_

* * *

His head doesn't smart so much when he opens his eyes to darkness. He glances towards the drawn curtains of a window—outside; New York City whirls and calls its endless, nonstop clip joint song. He can even see the moon caught between the empty search lights, calm and coarse; a burglar trying to sneak its away across the black sky with a bag full of silver pointed stars.

The door opens a little ways away, and he can't hide fast enough. For some reason, he braces himself. Maybe she'll scream at him, or maybe she'll throw him out. He figures she's bound to jump the gun at his binds. It's so wrong. Everything he's done. Everything he's ruined.

At first, she doesn't say anything. Her toes are light across the carpet, as if she's slinking across thinking that she's much too smooth to be heard, but Steve's hearing her all right. He's heard her barely conscious anyhow. He figures that's probably not a compliment to pay her. Then it hits him. He may be able to see the stuffed animal, bent books and her stack of little white socks in the corner near her closet, but she's practically blind.

The moonlight cradles the wooden outline of a chair—or more so, a make-shift stool, and she glides into it. From the corner of his eye, Steve tries to figure out what's happened to her. Her hair is wet, draping along her shoulders and neck like a soaked unfeathered boa. The water's pooled across her shoulders, fading unseen behind her back. When Steve gets to her waist, he yanks back at the ties. She's wearing some kind of long sleeved t-shirt, laced with tiny black furred terriers that are holding ribbons in their mouths, lacing in a pattern around her. The shirt's much too big for her that it drapes to her knees—but there's a problem.

She's pulled her knees up to her chest, and Steve pales, feeling what little blood that is in his body fight its way to his cheeks. It doesn't take much effort to fly his eyes away from seeing her—undergarments. He blinks hard, raw at the edges. He fights with his will to pretend, but it's breaking down fast. He has to start this process…whatever terrible process it may be.

He swallows, making the sound explicitly loud. Instantly, Beth jumps, her shirt slides down to cover her legs, a hand reaching out for something, but she's hesitant.

"Beth?" His voice rasps her name, clearing through the guilt of pretending for so long. He tries to focus just on her face, although the inky blackness around her swims if he tries to stare too hard.

"Steve—" Her voice is faint as it was before—he blinks, and he knows that she's been in this room more than once. It's her. It's always been her. "How…I…" her voice falters. She tries again. "I practiced what I was going to say to you before you woke up, but now I have no idea." She sighs, but it sounds rushed. "What can I do for you? Please tell me."

"M' cold, honestly," Steve's speech feels strangely slow as he decides what to label first. Cold ravages his skin. His body seems to be shaking right down to his bones. His lungs ache, his head pounds. He feels lightheaded, and is concerned why the room won't stop moving. Maybe she's talking too fast for him to keep up, but then he manages out a banged up: "How…how are you?"

More liquid drips into his eyes, and the delayed stinging is killing him.

From the chair, Beth blanches. Slowly, she places a single finger into the long sleeve of her shirt. She pulls down. In the shadows, Steve is the only one that can see her skin is tinged in something that shouldn't ever be on her body. His jaw hinged open in shock.

"I took a shower but it wouldn't come off," She says lowly, her voice heavy in defeat. "So I tried hot water…and then even hotter water…and it just started to burn. So I tried to my nails. But that didn't work either." Steve watches her light blue eyes dim as she crumbles up. "I was going to lie to you. Because in the dark, where we can't even see each other, I can pretend to be okay." She bites her lip, and it's not endearing as before. It's sad. So very sad and bitter on her pale lips, holding back all the pain he's caused her. Holding back from exploding again.

Steve hates himself for allowing it to happen. For a splintering moment, Beth's expression breaks—like she's going to start sobbing right there in the chair—the soldier's eyes widen, wishing the room would still long enough to really see if she is. But suddenly, her blue eyes open, narrowed and hard.

"But I'm  _not_ ," she says with finality, her voice tight. "I can't get your blood off of me."

Steve swallows, willing himself to drown in the shades of pain tricking down his throat. He's unsteady when he tries to reach for her—but something knocks his wrists back—and he realizes with stinging clarity that he's pinned. Someone didn't want him to touch her ever again.

"I…I'm so sorry," Steve's voice is barely audible. "Beth…I can't even begin to…to tell you how..." He struggles to explain, his tongue slightly numb, and his heart pounding heavy inside of him, welling up, filling him with panic.

Her eyes are bright in the darkness, and she winds her arm sleeve back up to her own wrist. Steve blinks, and she's seems closer.

"Sorry?" Beth's lips quirk as she repeats him. "Steve… _I'm_  the one that's sorry."

"Wh-at?" That sends him for a dive, and his teeth chatter into the question. Steve wished he had the nerve to ask her to turn the heater on, but he can't knead the words from the guilt sitting on his tongue. She's done too much for him already. He should be gone by now.  _She has your blood on her, for God's sake, Rogers._  
  
"I heard you before…you…" His brows furrow tightly, making his temples knock, the sound concussive and loud inside of him. "…said you were sorry about something?" He forces himself to look her in the eye. "You have nothing to be sorry for. Absolutely nothing."

Beth's eyes hold him hostage for a long time as she thinks. Slowly, she breathes out, fingers twisting together.

"I'm the reason you're here right now...in my  _bedroom_  of all places. You should be somewhere…better than here. A hospital. Or with your friends." She paused. "You told me not to freak out. And I did. I was so stupid to not keep my cool. I didn't even think to go through with calling 9-1-1—I called Natasha—because—because—"

Steve's breathing stops as the ceiling seemed to come crashing down upon him, full force—pieces batter against one another in their challenge to evade his memory.

Her bedroom. Natasha's voice, biting as a whip. Strong hands holding him back. Binds. Screaming that somehow wasn't his own. Beth. Her apartment. Blackness. Cold. Beth's terrified scream. Nothing.

"You were just… there." She stared hard into the blackness in front of her. "Freezing and bleeding in my lap and I just couldn't—" She hiccups a hitch of a sob. "I  _couldn't…"_

She shudders hard against the chair. The moist beads of her hair sticks to her face, casting a hollow smear along her cheek bone. Her voice is quiet again when she speaks.

"I'm so sorry I couldn't do what you asked me to."

Steve's own blond hair is soaked to the edges of his forehead, along his ears, inching like mad. He wrestles with what to do with himself. He wants to push his hair away. He wants to push her hair back behind her ear. He wants to throw himself out that window that is just so far away.

When he doesn't respond, Beth noticeably leans forward—a few droplets sprinkle across his face, waking him up better in their coolness. It strikes him along his lids—and when he reacts, it slides down, feeling like a tear all its own. Somewhere in the back of his mind, that same voice speaks to him:

_You don't have to give her everything, Rogers. Just give her something of yourself._

He licks his dry lips, trying to not let his voice tremble.

"Beth…I…I called you…before…because I wanted to see you. You make me feel…something that I don't think I've felt in decades. But I…I messed it all up."

The silence nearly cleaves him in two, her response feels so long in waiting. She raises her fingers and swipes at her nose, sniffing.

"You didn't know you were bleeding." She discloses.

He shifts against the pillow, turning as best as he can along his side to look at her. He wants to believe she'd know that, but it's all such a blur in his own head. The last honest to goodness thing he remembers is talking about a shower. He wishes, lying across his once-to-be-possible gal's sheets, that it's true. He doesn't know what to say. He feels so broken through it all. He nearly wishes that Thor and Nat didn't leave him here. The only satisfaction he gets is knowing that Beth isn't hurt. Wasn't hurt.

By him.

"I…wasn't myself." Steve sighs hard, closing his eyes tight. His hands rattle the ties. "I was in a kinda pain I don't quite understand."

"Natasha…said that you went to a walk in center to get some pain medication." She tilts her head curiously, her blue eyes cautious. "Did you know it'd…messed you up that badly? That's…one hell of a reaction."

He shakes his head halfway—a full head shake makes his world spin for seconds end to end. "Not for a long time. Y'know how I said I was sickly when I was a kid?—Scarlet Fever. Asthma. Heart murmur. I was a wreck. I'd use to think I was bullet proof if I just pushed back hard enough." He grimaces. "Should've realised the trouble I'd get myself into. Back when…" He stumbles. "When I was a kid, it only took about two beers to get me drunk."

Beth's eyebrows rise slightly. "You?"

Steve looks up at her helplessly. "Me."

She studies him for a moment, and slowly a small sad smile plays across her lips. "You're…something else, Steve Rogers."

He swallows scratchily, trying to keep at the subject. "You...ever struggle with anything like that? Childhood illness, I…mean?"

"I had asthma, but thankfully I grew out of it. It's not much fun for farm work."

Steve's eyes widen slightly at the news. He thought the Serum had fixed his entire mess of a body. But…asthma…had a cure?

"You can be cured of asthma?"

Her lips tighten, and Steve knows he's said something stupid. "Sometimes, yeah. And sometimes it stays with you, and you use an inhaler."

"Oh," Steve tries not to let his expression show how flabbergasted he feels.

The silence feels palpable between them.

"Now…I honestly struggle with…stress, I guess you could call it." Beth said slowly. Her eyes drift away from his, as if she's too shy to tell him so directly. "I…wasn't telling you the whole truth…you know…back on the boardwalk? I…I sort've…freak out sometimes for no good reason. Not just when, well, my first date in a few years decides to bleed on me."

His heart skips, tightens, strangles inside of him. He considers for a moment, his heart still thudding, and her breathing is loud in his ears. "Could you describe that…for me please?"

"Suddenly panicky. You can't breathe. You can't think. You feel…lost."

He thinks it's the swishing of blood rushing in his ears, but her words sound echoey to him. He takes a breath, but it's blocked—his hands twist against their holds.  _Panic. Breathe. Lost._   _She…she feels it too?_  Finally, he swallows enough of a cough to ask her, tangled inside of his thoughts.

"Is it…like…do you ever…walk into a room and you find yourself suddenly…overwhelmed. It's…too empty. Or…there's something wrong with it still, and you drive yourself up the wall because you just can't put your finger on why…and then you wake up late at night and you realise that it's you that shouldn't be there?"

Beth's breathing seemed to disappear.

"I…I can't say I've felt exactly that. But..I'll get a thought stuck in my head…like, I'll see a costumer reading the New York Times and the headline will be about the Attack and I just…can't stop thinking about it. I can't stop shaking the mug of coffee when I pour and eventually if someone looks as me funny I'll just burst into tears."

Steve's light blue eyes motion towards Beth anxiously. "Sometimes I feel like I can't breathe."

"When?"

His mouth opens, muscles seizing deep down, clawing at his lungs. "Like now." He added breathlessly.

Beth steels herself in her chair.  _"Now?"_

"It's sort've like my asthma attacks I'd have when I was a kid, but," He shuddered a breath, thoughts rushing for logic. He steals from what he's learned in their passing time together. "I really thought I grew outta that kinda thing."

Steve presses himself against the cover sheet of the mattress, every hiss of the springs inside of it protesting his shaking. The sleek black ties coil along his flesh, eating angry red marks. Beth's eyes seemed to reach for something on the nightstand, but suddenly her arms are pulling at the sheets. "The last thing you need is something on you if you can't breathe."

"Wait," Steve tries not to sound stern, but their touching and his heart is shuddering against his battered ribs. "Ya—you can't—don't."

Beth's fingers are loose over the sheets. "I…I just want to help. Please."

"I know, but—I…" He twists slightly, lungs practically surging in him. "Look," he sputters.

The sheet slips down a ways from his shoulder, but Beth continues to stare. Steve swallowed hard. Her eyes aren't strong enough to see it. "If you can…touch my arm, run it down to my wrist."

The tips of her fingers seemed to glow a soft red in the silver shadows along the walls, and she gasps when they tug over multiple ropes, lean and tight. She's nearly speechless when her eyes leer back to Steve's. "You're…tied down? Why?"

Steve tries to think fast, but the room is spinning from his struggles for air. "Seize. In case I started—"

"No!" Beth interjects, and quickly she's peeling the binds off of his wrists, his ankles. "That's terrible, if you were to seize, you'd need the freedom to move!"

By the time he tries to reason, she has him free. He lurches up, and his side sinks icy fangs into the wound—it twists up, shaking his brain inside of his skull—he hopes he's not screaming. But he can't breathe. Something shifts—almost like he's falling, but someone's supporting him up.

Beth.

She's perched at the foot of the bed, both arms reaching out. She has him by the shoulders, fingers digging in tightly. Steve tries not to gasp, willing himself to stay calm. It's slightly working, if only because he doesn't have to focus his strength on staying up right. Her strength can't last long, and he feels himself inch forward, towards her face. Her arms shake slightly, and he manages to lean forward on his own, arms bracing himself from falling over completely. His breathing is hard, rattling her frame. Black dots littered his vision, and his eyes squeeze tightly, burning in his sockets. He wonders if he even has eyes left. Maybe they're gaping holes now, robbed from him for being such a selfish idiot.

He doesn't think of Peggy. He won't think of Peggy.

He coughs hard, almost like he's bringing up ice. One of Beth's hands finds his own in the darkness, warm and soft.

Beth tried to keep herself active. Talking was better than not. "Better, now that you can move?"

"I…I'll let you know in a…" He can't even finish his sentence, inhaling hurts too much.

Minutes tick by, and Steve's breathing feels more controlled for the moment. He ducks upward to glance at Beth, but her voice catches his ears first.

"This feels…familiar."

Steve is suddenly completely lost at what he sees.

Beth's blush on the apples of her cheeks are like welcoming beacons in the shadowy waves of the room. A faint look of a reprieve touches her eyes—but then it, too, fades away. "Oh. That makes sense—you wouldn't…you wouldn't remember."

Steve looked at her curiously, his voice still rusty. "What wouldn't I remember?"

"You, well, uh, kissed me. A little like this."

Steve pales, and his whole body pushes away, eyes vulnerable.  _Kissed..?_

"I blacked out when I kissed you?"

"No, no, Ronda tased you. She…she thought you were hurting me when you went to kiss me."

Steve's jaw sets itself sorely over the word 'tased'. He's not too terribly sure what that means, but it doesn't sound charming.

"I was…tased?" he tried the funny word out and it makes his cold face twitch over the s's 'z' sound.

"Electrocuted. Yeah."

He winced. He'd be the first to admit he was getting real sick of electricity. Then a darker thought hit him.

"Beth," this time his voice does shake. "Did…I hurt you?"

Beth squeezed his hand just once, and that's all he needs to know. Yes. Yes he did.

_What have I done?_

He keeps talking because if he doesn't use his mouth for something he'll just start hyperventilating. Again.

"I never meant to hurt you," He blurted out numbly, outraged at his own action. "I'm so sorry. And to just…I'm such a lousy kisser anyhow, but I…I…don't know what I was thinking. I just…"

_Needed you_ , he finishes inside of his head.

Beth lapsed into quiet, tugging at the collar of her t-shirt. Watching her withdrawal into herself is killing him.

"Steve…why did you do it? Why call  _me?"_  Her voice seems to chime like chips of glass tapped together, fragile and chaotic. Like one of the angel's from Grand Central Station, where they met.

He looks up at her, right in the eyes, clear as day, and finally says it.

"I was cold. I always feel…cold." A pause. A break. His voice feels so weak. "I think something's wrong with me."

A hand slides from his shoulder to cup itself over his forehead, drenched in sweat. "No, you're still burning up. It must be the chills."

Steve's voice breaks a bit when he chuckles dryly. She doesn't get it. "I wish that were true."

He wants her hand to stay just like that—the warmth takes over the pounding in his head, wiping his thoughts blank. The bed sways slightly when she moves away from him, and he has to really focus to just continue sitting up.

"I'll be right back. Got just the thing."

He stared after her, his heart rate exhausting him as he tries to use it to measure how long it's been. He wants to call out for her, somehow. He wants to scream, as well. He also wants to break the bedside table, but he doesn't do that, either. She's back in the room in record time, a tiny bounce to her step that makes the carpet beneath her look dizzying. Between her hands is something fuzzy and grey.

"Electric blanket?" Beth offers, her voice sounding more upbeat at the idea.

_Electric blanket?_  Steve tries not to sound too alarmed when he responds back to her.

"Would it be rude of me to say I don't care for that?"

Beth rocks on her bare feet for a moment, considering. "You…don't have to be so polite, you know. You can tell me what you want, Steve."

_You can tell me what you want_ , her voice trills in the back of his mind. No one's really asked him that. No one's really considered that for him. He looks at her for half a second and cracks a grin. Then he's chuckling. Soon Steve's laughing but his side rips with every row, destroying him, an open wound that desperately pours out bitterness.

And he can't stop.

The room twists roughly, slamming him back against the pillows, knocking the wind out of him. He can't recover it back—he forces himself to breathe in, but it's not working. The mattress under him feels watery—sinking. He writhes, trying to find someplace to grab before it swallows him. His vision pulses dark at the edges—he can't see Beth's face anymore. She's gone in the darkness. Stale moonlight tinted the crisp, watery sheet layers before him like waves on the ocean. Soon there's a noise in the air that doesn't sound like laughter anymore. It's weaker. Broken into sharp pieces. He's crying. His tears feel like they're bleeding down his face, traced in paths of mourning from everyone he's lost. Everyone he didn't get a chance to say goodbye to. They're too hot, unnatural across his skin, bubbling—his shudders, cold over-taking his body, and he cries out when splashes of blood start to fall from his mouth. He's bit his tongue to try and stop, but he can't.

The darkness embodies him, sending shivers down his spine, and he freezes. He can taste something metallic. Every inch of his body hurts—he twists again, but nothing is giving way. Why can't he just drown already? Why can't it be easy? It was so easy for everyone  _else_  to just let time take them. He's had bombs try to blow him up. Missiles and bullets rip through his muscles, but water will win. He wants it to win. His head throbs like an iron spike is stabbed through him. He's sobbing, large fingers gripping at his sweaty hair, threatening to rip it off. He'd rip himself apart if he meant this would end. He just wants to breathe, or to stop breathing. There's no more in between. He won't linger this time.

He's wants to die. He'll say it now. He just wants to die and be cold and let it wash over him.

Someone's talking to him, but he can't make out their words. They're whispering, close, and he can almost taste their breath mixed with his own. When he shoves them away, they're back again. Pressure is placed on the side of his face. An arm wraps around the back of his neck. He's pulled into something solid. Solid against the water he's drowning in. His arms tighten around her back. Warmth. He doesn't let go.

* * *

She fights him for what feels like hours—but it's minutes of Steve breaking down. She watches it happen with a sense of great fear—it's so sudden, she has no time to prepare. He curled around himself, one arm bracing his side, one his head, shuddering against something that isn't there. His eyes beam red, water streaking down his cheeks in shame. She forces herself to be brave. She wants to be brave. It's disturbing to see, but yet she knows exactly what it's like. Something's spinning out of control. Sparks wheeling off the end of a cut diamond. A kind of raw material that wasn't meant for breaking, but somehow it is.

She grabbed Steve, pulling tight against him. The soldier's arms locked around her like a vice, squeezing with a force that's pushing her shoulder blades out of their sockets. His face wearily buried itself into her shoulder. She can feel his tears weeping through the outline of her shirt, leaking down her arms until it's gliding along where his blood had dried. A hand struggles to touch the back of his neck—the only supportive gesture she can manage as he shudders. The tips of her fingers brush through his hair. He's hurting her, it's true, but she braces herself and attempts to hug him just as tightly.

Slowly, she glides her fingers back through his hair, down the broad definition of his shoulders, down his back—up again. She can feel every time he attempts to gain control. His fingers pressed in hard against her shirt, but she just focuses on holding him. He trembles against her, but it doesn't seem as harsh. She steals the chance to angle her mouth towards his own ear, and she tries to think of anything to say that could help. She thinks about what Ronda told her. About things being okay. But they're not. This is not okay. It's messed up in so many ways, but it's happening, and Beth decides to accept that.

Carefully, she presses her lips against his ear, her fingers shifting through his hair soothingly.

"I'm here," she whispers. This brings a rise out of him. Like he's trying to speak, but it's swallowed by a softer sound. Almost a whimper. She hugs harder. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

She keeps repeating this for God doesn't even know how long. She doesn't care. All she knows is that she refuses to say it's okay. She's not going to lie anymore. But there's one thing that is true. "I'm here, Steve. Okay?" She cups the back of his neck, adjusting her arm back so she can touch his cheek. "Can you feel me?"

He seems lost for a moment, forehead resting against her shoulder as he's locked around her, but he leans against her fingers, his eyes closed. Soon his sobbing turns into pitches of breathing. Slowly his grip around her is returning to that of a normal tight hold. She leans into his neck, pressing her face into his chest. He's still burning up, but his grip is loosening still. She uses the advantage to bring him down across the bed. She tries to fix his IV tube, kicking the rest of his terrible binds off the bed.

She's feels lucky that she's managed to lay him on the side that isn't a gaping wound. His arms still fight to wrap themselves around her back—pulling her into him like she weighs nothing. She lets him, scooting closer so that he doesn't have to strain so hard. His face is flushed from crying, but his eyes open wearily at her. Carefully she uses the soft corner of a sheet to pad at his face, and is nervous when he doesn't even react. He just continues to stare at her. Like he did in the park. She reaches back to push through his hair, and his eyes flutter. He fights to keep looking at her, blue eyes desperate, as if he won't wake back up.

"If this is what you want, Steve," she whispers softly, close to his lips. "I'll stay."

She hugs herself to him, as if to prove this point, and he reacts with hesitation, before finally nuzzling against her neck. It isn't proper in the moment, but his stubble tickles her, and she stifles a small giggle. He stops, alarmed for a second, and she looks back up at him.

She touches his face again. "I'm sorry—that just tickled."

He sighs at this, but it sounds content for some reason. He lowers his head down, resting against the soft fabric along her neck once more. She snuggles closer, one hand along his neck, keeping track of his heartbeat. The other under him, along his back. He crashes quickly, his heart rate dropping startlingly fast before it evens out. His breath is warm against her neck, and eventually it slows into a deeper rhythm. Beth presses herself against him. It's not perfect but the darkness in her room feels a tiny bit brighter.

* * *

She only slightly moves once to send Ronda the texts she promised, but it's hard. Steve's grip, even while completely relaxed, is heavy along her side—when she tries to carefully wiggle free, he makes a soft sound of protest, and she instantly stops, her heart drumming. He's breaking her heart.

haphazardly, she manages to grab Steve's phone from the floor. She flips through a missed call from an unknown number and types in Ronda's, hoping that Steve won't mind her disturbance. It's important. Not necessarily a matter of life or death, but Beth worries that it could be. Ronda might just kill Beth herself out of anxiety.

_Texting from Steve's phone, don't worry, he's asleep, things are…uh…turning out okay. I think. I don't even know where to begin with what happened today, Ronda. But tonight…things seem…different. It's…really messed up, yeah, but, so are we. I'll talk to you later today. 4:53 am.  
_  
She drops his phone back onto the carpet, and curls back into Steve's lax embrace. She fixes the sheets over him, remembering how he said he was cold—but from the way he's wrapped around her, that doesn't seem to be a problem for tonight. Then she thinks of one final piece of reprise. She carefully kisses him on the neck—too nervous to even try for his lips. She thinks for a moment that he might be waking up, but he merely mumbles against her shoulder—stirring the fabric there with every breath he takes.

At first, it tickles, but soon it's a center of calm for her to focus on. She doesn't think about the shadows, or the traffic rushing by, or the red scrub marks on her skin.

It's warm.

And she likes it.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And even as I wander I'm keeping you in sight,
> 
> You're a candle in the window on a cold dark winters night,
> 
> And I'm getting closer than I ever thought I might."
> 
> \- R.E.O. Speed Wagon
> 
> By the by, I'm looking for someone who would be interested in creating a cover for "No Day But Today"? Or, honestly, any of my other stories. If you'd let me know, I'll, of course, credit you with everything.
> 
> AN: oh Man oh MAN ya'all should see me sliding around on the wooden floors in my skivves, crooning out some R.E.O. Speed Wagon. It's not for the faint of heart.
> 
> and awhh yeah, all that accurate historical references/medical. The only thing I let slide was electric blankets. They were around back then, but meh, Steve missed that fuzzy boat.
> 
> So, seriously, EVERYONE GIVE ME A HIGH FIVE. Could this fic get over 100 reviews? I'm going flip out if it does. Well, I flip out over any reviews, but still. So, hooray. Finally some um, well, kinda…messed up romantics in this fic, huuuuh? So don't go anywhere yet! Looks like Steve's gonna have one interesting morning. And what do the rest of the Avengers think of this? Someone's not going to be happy. Or Ronda? And…didn't Beth say she was working tomorrow? Er. Today? Awkward. How does one explain to their boss that they're too busy cuddling an emotionally distressed super hero?
> 
> Special thank you to EVERYONE that's reviewed/followed/favourited! I am SO sorry for thank you delays and message delays. I'm writing this RIGHT in the middle of finals. I know you all know that feel when I say I'm feeling that feel, ya feel? Thank youuu. Ahhhh. 8D Thank you SO much to Goldenpuon for saving my butt on fixes, and Hoperise!


	19. The Early Morning After

A dull pain trills along his stomach, pricking at his side and Steve shifts, his consciousness bombarded with awareness. His eyes drift upward, dimly aware of a ceiling fan turning cool air from above. Colours are layering down the room that's already draped in clothes of purple bruises, battered hues of blue that stretch faintly across the walls—a window forgotten to be closed all the way allows the last squall of city traffic to rush until morning.

The first thing he notices is that he's warm. He has woken up with feeling in his legs, his fingertips, for the first time in months.

The second thing is that he is not alone.

His heart skips hard.

She stayed.

His arm is locked around her, cupping under her side. He can practically hold the curve of her entire hipbone in his hand.

Then he remembers that she's not wearing pyjama bottoms, and his face burns in distress.

He carefully attempts to roll his arm out from under her, having to lean in towards her sleeping face—the tangles of her blonde hair are splayed across the pillow next to him, darken softly by the shadows hanging around. From the corner of his eye, he glances again towards the window. Faint stars are still twinkling back at him. It's not even morning.

He forces himself not to wonder how long it'd been. He has bigger things to worry about. Like the fact that he's so inappropriately snuggled next to Beth. Like where his phone is so that he can call Natasha and possibly yell half-way to New Jersey about how terrible he's made this whole thing.

A small sound escapes Steve's lips as he moves, and Beth opens her eyes sleepily in response. He freezes, caught red-handed.  _Well, not exactly_ , Steve corrects halfheartedly.  _She's red-handed with my blood._  
  
"Hey," he breathes quietly, his heart stuttering its pulse.

"Steve," Beth's lips glow faintly in the moonlight as she speaks, sometimes dripping a white or grey from the shadow of snowfall crisping through the window. "Wha…" She blinks, a hand sloppily moving hair out of her eyes.

"I, uh, was gonna try and find your bathroom," Steve murmurs, completely embarrassed between how much he wants to tell her she looks adorable when she first wakes up, and how much shame he feels when his sharp eyes can still make out all the dried red on her body.

"Oh," there's a touch of haphazard relief in the sound. He can hear the creak of her elbow joint when she points unsteadily towards the north wall of her bedroom. There's a distinct pause before she tells him what exactly she's directing him towards. "There. It's…it's there."

"Thanks."

He swings his legs over, testing his weight on the carpet, but his side still feels slightly numb—every step isn't agony. He only hopes that this means he's healing as fast as he usually does. He tries to not practically race for the door.

_"Wait!"_  Beth calls frantically and Steve nearly jumps out of his skin.

"What—what's wrong?" His eyes take in the room, preparing for danger.

"You can walk okay?" She blinks, startled. "I was going to help you walk but…it looks like you're good in….that department….And…you're…still hooked up to the bag. Um," She pulls the sheets of herself, and thankfully her night shirt covers down past her waist—but he gets a full view of her legs.

_Wow_ , Steve tries not to just ogle at her, does she have a nice pair of gams.

"You'll have to take the bag with you, or take out the IV." She bites her lip nervously. "Do you think you're ready to do that?"

"What?" Steve asks stupidly, prying his eyes away from them.

"Your IV," Beth's voice wobbles slightly. "Ah…just. Yeah." She wants to fold herself up in the sheets and stop being. Looking at the blood, she feels stable somehow, but still, she feels helpless in how to remove an IV. She thinks of the panic button shoved in her night stand drawer. But one look at Steve, watching him stand haplessly in her room, dark purple circles under his eyes and his hair slightly sticking in all directions, she decides she's safe enough.

She taps the silver bloodbag stand, pushing it slightly towards Steve. "I'll be over here."

Carefully, Steve grasps the stand and pulls it into the bathroom with him. The soft dragging noise it makes along the carpet seems grating in his ears.

The door to the bathroom doesn't close quickly enough. He hopes he doesn't break the lock to her door, as he  _may_  have squeezed it in a bit too hard. Her bathroom is elongated, toilet towards the very back, shower to the far left. There's a silver sink basin, but no windows. His eyes can pick out a pattern swimming through the wallpaper. Some kind of shells from a beach. Dark purples, greens, blues. There are definitely turtles along the sink.

He takes a deep breath, twists the handle to the sink and carefully wets his hand. He doesn't risk splashing himself with water. He doesn't want to feel cold ripples drip from his face. Not when he feels warm.

He brings his hand up, taking a deep breath before he confronts himself in the mirror. It feels like another Steve Rogers is staring back at him. His blue eyes look black in the darkness. His hair is something to be desired—fingers rake through it, pushing it down. He's stunned when he touches the skin on his neck—it  _stings_ —and he notices the bruising of purple under his eyes. He sighs at himself, brows furrowed in defeat. He doesn't like seeing himself like this. Now Beth has too.

His other hand has the final job. He edges his fingers down his side, hitching around the cotton of his shirt, and lifts up.

He lets out a hiss of wonder at the wound now. It's mostly black and green. The other edges before had swirled outward, like heat had burst through his skin, is back to normal—smooth and pale. He braves touching it, and his fingers flex back—just looking at the darned thing makes it seem a hundred times more painful, but he presses inwards. He knows he shouldn't be doing this, but he couldn't help but test how much he could heal, and even take. Even when he was a kid, wounds were fascinating. But really, it seemed like he just wanted to buckle down to the floor as punishment for everything he's caused.

The silence of the empty bathroom makes Steve think of his own bedroom at the Tower. He imagines Tony pacing through the halls, Clint sharpening an arrow head. His team was probably up right now, just waiting for him.

Fingers prod at his side, and the pain is still strong—but he's able to walk around, and for that, he's grateful. He can only imagine how much his body would've had to heal to get to this level of mobility.

They'd want answers. Steve sighs, leaning his forehead against the mirror. They'd want answers that Steve didn't want to give. Natasha had told him the rough truth: that it was only Thor and her that knew about Beth. Honestly, the soldier had no idea how to salvage his….could he even call it a relationship with Beth? He wanted to do this on his own—but soon…they'd have to find out. They'd probably want to get involved.

Steve's dark blue eyes in the mirror turn even darker, and he shudders back. It's like he's looking at Stark's. God, and what Tony would do to him. He couldn't even imagine. The guy was a paranoid nutcase. True, Steve allowed smartly, that his name-calling was coming from the mouth of a depressed nutcase, but it didn't make either label less true.

And he still detests Stark.

He closes his eyes.

_You can tell me what you want Steve_ , Beth had told him. Even in his feverish state, he would never forget that. And what he wanted, if she could somehow see around the cracks in his shield, was Beth Ore. That didn't change. But how to tell her that?

_Delicately, as you help soap your own blood off her arms?_  He can almost hear Tony's sadisms.

Steve nearly shatters his dark reflection in the mirror with the knuckles of his hand, but he forces it to change direction, and he reels back, pressed against the wall.

He couldn't keep running away from this. He was better than this. He'd have to change his plan of action soon. He practiced moving his legs, paced the bathroom all the way back to the door. He could walk. Which meant that he could leave, and begin the repair of his friends.

He slowly craned his neck to look back at the door, so close from his grasp.

He hated doorways. He hated empty rooms. He hated himself. But he had to start somewhere.

The knob twists after a long while, with Beth trying not to seem like she's been waiting for what's to come from it. He's not even through the door when she speaks.

"I understand if you want to leave," She says quietly.

Her legs are folded neatly under her, and Steve can finally stop his weak attempts to not stare at them. A hand turns her hair, moonlight playing through it, rushing golden, rushing silver. "I…I promise nothing happened. If that's what you're worried about."

Steve feels himself stiffen, halfway out of the bathroom.  _Happened?_  His thoughts whisper.  _No_ , he wants to snap at her _. Everything happened._ Everything _completely happened—sex would have been the most normal and boring thing that could have happened. It's not nothing._

When his toes touch the soft tendrils of carpet from tile, he can feel Beth's eyes on him, somehow finding him in the darkness, her blue eyes perturbed.

A hand rubs at his throat, then his cheek, self-consciously, and he knows that she's waiting for him to leave. Somehow she knows that he's thinking about leaving, and it's true.

He thinks about the hike back through the chilling snow, the grit of his teeth when his side beats raw with every step. He thinks about leaving her alone in the dark of her apartment and never seeing her again, and that hurts more than being hit with Thor's hammer thirty times over.

He pads back towards her bed, and climbs back across it, debating suffocating himself with a pillow. He stills like this for a second, breathes out, and turns his head to look at her. Her light blue eyes stare hard into him, her mouth slightly open.

"I really thought you were going to leave." she says curtly.

Steve holds his breath for a moment, stretches out across the bed, and accepts that he's going to have to just make do with the fact that he's balled up, but Beth's still kindly as ever.

"No. No, I'm not going to leave." He pretends like he'd never heard of the idea. "Why would you think that?"

Beth's mouth quirks, chewing on the side of her cheek. She leans back into her pillow, and looks carefully at Steve. She doesn't answer, and it makes his ears ache listening to her breathe.

A beat passes, and, unable to stand it any longer, Steve tries again.

"I like your turtles."

This snaps Beth out of her trace. She's looking at him incredulously. "What?"

"In your bathroom," Steve chuckles. "It's very…cute. I have a kinda…this fear of the ocean—" he thumbs at his nose, then thumbs at her bathroom to further his point. "But it's nice in there. Calming, I suppose."

She's very quiet for a second—and then Steve wins a small smile. "Is it silly that all this time I honestly worried you'd hate it?"

"Hate it? Who would ever hate starfish and turtles? A real villain, that's who." Steve nods jokingly, wanting her to smile again. "Folks often gatecrash into your life and make fun of your washroom décor?"

The smile vanishes. She starts picking at the collar of her shirt. The dark tread of a Scottish terrier is chasing itself thin. "You could say that."

Steve fixes the stand above him, fiddling with the IV in the dim light. He gives it a sharp yank and it pops out—he doesn't bleed like he would've years ago from needles. The puncture is gone in seconds. It seems like Beth doesn't notice. Her face is locked in a grimace.

Beth's positive expression is weak on her lips. "How are you feeling?"

Steve shifts back, trying to get comfortable, but really he only becomes more aware of where he is. He could count just how close Beth is to him, the eyes of a stuffed animal in the corner. Pictures that look like landscapes from mythical kingdom eras lining her bedroom walls. The round eastern looking coins taped to her curtains, chiming every so often in the cool, snow sprinkled wind. He finds himself looking at her though, laying so close to him, and he feels warm again. Suddenly, he's yawning, but he manages to cover his mouth, throwing his arm upwards. The force behind his arm is so strong it shakes the bed.

"Like I went three rounds with the Sandman, and I'm pretty sure he won."

Beth smiles into the pillow. "Do you not…sleep very easily?" Her voice sounds guarded. "I know that…well, earlier we talked about our…anxieties but…"

"Yeah," Steve tells the ceiling. "You could say that."

"You told a lot to me…and I want you to know that…" Her hand is inside of his, squeezing. "That I need to also tell you something of mine."

Steve's blue eyes lock desperately with hers, his blush of shame crawling up his neck. "I'm sorry that I bawled to you. That's…I…" He can't even begin. It's just one of so many things he can't even begin to explain to her.

Beth slides closer to him, resting her head slowly on his shoulder. Steve knows that turning just an inch more would touch his nose to her cheek. Their hands are still intertwined.

"I really do understand. Well, about the breakdown I mean. Plus, you were sick." She reaches up a hand and lays it along his forehead. It's still faintly hot. "Well, you still might be. I just wanted to do anything to help you."

Steve feels his eyes shut on their own, safe under her fingers. For a moment, they're just breathing together, but Beth's eyes widen slightly. She touches the crown of his golden hair, and Beth feels like she's seen him somewhere before. Hiding his face feels like she's lifting back some other image in the back of her mind that she just can't…picture. But it's over too soon, as she can't test him for a fever forever, and she slides her hand away, lingering over the stubble of his jaw.

"I was…I'm trying," She laughs at herself, but it sounds empty. "To use that as a lead way to…to tell you…"

Her free hand closes itself into a fist, and she fiercely hits the mattress—it's so unexpected that Steve forces himself to stay still. His heart collides with his battered rip cage.

"God, why can't I just say it to you?" She's sitting up, hands through her long strands of hair. She makes a sound of anguish in the back of her throat, and then curls back down into Steve's undamaged side.

Steve swallows thickly, one hand still somehow fitted to hold her so close to his chest that he can feel her breathe out, the puppies on her shirt nuzzling against the swelling red of his stomach, his side. "Gee, I…I wouldn't know what to say to help that, really."

She breathes out slowly against him, and her hair feels like velvet along his collarbone. Her lips are so close to his skin, it's like her breathing is a imploding star casting out, and he's catching the remains of their shock waves, forever a sign that this is real. He's not dreaming. "I don't want to tell you this, but I feel like I've gotta say it now, or it's gonna eat me alive."

Another pause. Beth swallows dryly.

"Have you ever done something you regret? That…that possibly hurt someone else?"

The air seems too still, breathing seems so insignificant as he thinks. For a single second, he thinks he's going to tell her about being Captain America. He'd tell her everything—he nearly did hours ago, when the entire sky seemed to be pressing down towards a crystallized point on the back of his skull that magnified every memory he had of home. Closing his eyes still brings back the scent of sickness that's swirling around them. There's a coil of tubes leading from his pale wrist to a scarlet bag floating above them, broken and strained. His side still pulses in minor explosions of pain. It all seems so eerily familiar to the last time he understood what home felt like.

"My mother," Steve began softly, tongue sticky and dry against the hard faults in his teeth. "She died of tuberculosis when I was sixteen. She was a nurse in a TB ward, but I took care of her during the worse of it at home, because we couldn't afford much of a hospital bill. But I went without realising that once I was exposed to it for such a long time, I would have to be quarantined. I didn't care about that then, though. She passed too slowly. She had such a will to not die. She…refused. She refused until the end, and I had to watch the light fade from her eyes. It seemed like I turned around once, and I was thrown into quarantine. It was lonesome in there, so the staff allowed me to take other things I had touched inside with me. Books, mainly. My father's— Aesop's Fables kinda of a deal."

He took a breath that unfolded in the quiet of the room, loud like the inhale of a monster, sitting between them, glowering, claws tapping along bathroom tiles, dragging itself over the sheets, tearing them open.

"Anyway, when I was declared a decent bill of health, which didn't happen often, mind you, I walked out that white-walled door and they started ripping the clothes right off my back. I was so frustrated that nearly decked the doctor, but I was overpowered pretty easily." He swallowed, sweat on his fingertips. He'd never told anyone this secret before. "It was then I was told that they had to burn everything."

Beth leaned against his chest, hands still between them. She whispered something, but Steve didn't care to hear it. He just kept going. "I had to watch my father's books burn." He paused. "Something about watchin' those pages turn to black ashes created something bitter inside of me. I was given new clothes, and sent home with orders to do the same to anything inside the house that was contaminated."

Beth felt the sheets swirl inside of his palm, fingers crushing the delicate emptiness with so much strength she was sure there were holes.

"I couldn't go through with it." Steve finally admitted, and it felt like a needle had been stabbed through his tongue with the way the words actually hurt to say. "I didn't burn anything. I didn't burn her threadwork, her jewelry, or her photographs. She'd clung tightly to this picture of my father before she passed and when I saw that still laying on her bed; I knew I couldn't do it."

Steve's eyes narrowed at the shadows looming above.

"I hid them so well, Bucky didn't even know. I just lied through my teeth and walked around for months pretending like I wasn't carrying a sickness that had killed, not just my mother, but thousands of people. And I worried constantly that I might've passed on the illness to anyone I came into contact with." He sighed slowly. "It's been years and years, but I still think about that from time to time."

Beth lay so perfectly still beside him that it made Steve wonder if his longwinded confession had put her back to sleep. But suddenly she reached for his hand over the waves of the fabric, curled around the fist he had made. He eased open his hand, blinking at the ceiling in shock. He had no idea he'd even done that.

"Oh my god," She whispers simply. Her blue eyes are shiny in the moonlight. She tries to digest it all quickly. "Steve. I…wish I knew what to say."

"You don't have to say anything," Steve cuts in quickly, shaking his head back and forth along the pillow. "I've…never told anyone that before." The phase feels tight, every letter attached to strings supporting his sanity from the ceiling. "It just means a lot to have someone listening."

A finger traces the cracks on the back of his hand. "Were you close with your mom?"

All of this talking makes Steve feel exhausted. He hasn't spoken about her in years.

"She was a wonderful woman. She certainly was tough. I think she taught me to always be mindful of others, and to not complain so much when it seemed like we didn't have enough."

"Enough?"

Steve shifts, realising how he's getting a close shave to the details. No wonder she'd pick at the word. Enough. Like wondering if you'd have enough food for dinner that night, or if you're walking a few miles to find a free meal being served in a crowd of fly-bitten sales men. The books he'd read at the public library called it  _The Great Depression_. He can't just up and say he'd lived during it. He pulled for another reason.

"My folks, they were conscious about giving more than having things. I just learned quickly that I had to be grateful for what I had. Who I knew. It's like I said, she was a nurse, so she had a lot of care to give to other people."

"And what did your dad do?"

"He died a soldier's death. It's partially the reason I joined the army. He was such an inspiration to me." Steve's voice grew softer, raspier. "I think he knew I'd be someone strong one day. He just kept telling me to keep my chin up about how hard people would treat me. About bullies. He was the strong, silent type, but he always spoke with reason. He saw reason in me when most people saw weakness." A sigh. "But I think he was also a little disappointed me as well."

"Why would he be disappointed in you?" Beth whispers, her breath warm along his face.

"I think he wanted me to be happy with who I was, and not who I strived to be."

Beth's breathing is soothing in his ear, and he fought not to yawn again. He tried to market it off as a chuckle. "Look'it me, flapping my gums. Weren't you going to say something about yourself?"

Beth flushed hard, her cheeks burning. "Yeah…I was getting to that."

"Mm?" Steve loved her smell. It smelled rather earthy now, like rainfall.

She sighed, hard, and squeezed his hand again. "Well, you mentioned that you couldn't sleep. And I have that same problem. But I…hurt people, sometimes. I'd go out with guys, not because I really wanted to date them, but because I was so scared to be alone at night. I'd even invite them in and—" Her voice wavered. "And…yeah, they'd make fun of my bathroom. They didn't understand what it…it meant for me. And how could they, when I didn't care to understand what they wanted." She then stifled a sad giggle. "Well, I  _knew_  what they wanted—but still, I didn't care because having someone there was better than having night terrors."

Steve felt his face burning at her admission. Him not saying anything was murder on her conscience.

"But I stopped. Ronda. She…she finally,  _finally_ talked some sense into me. And I just…backed off entirely. I knew that I'd have to work on myself. And that's what I've been doing. For months now. Slowly…yeah."

"I just wanted to say that you're the first guy I'd met that makes me think outside of my own selfish self and I never,  _ever_ want to treat you like those other guys. And…I hope you can know this, and possibly start to believe me when I say that…I feel like I've known you for a long time. And I'm sorry that you've found me in such a terrible state. It's one thing to use your body as you want. It's…another when you just hurt people and bang up their emotions and not care because you feel safe for one more day. And that's what I did."

"Beth," Steve tried not to let his mouth hang open. A thousand emotions floods his dulling senses—but one that was very clear is his revulsion, thinned out through his veins for what she did to try to fix herself. Sure, it made his throat feel like he was swallowing cotton to think that she'd curled up to some Joe for sleep, disdain like spoilt coffee on the roof of his mouth but…she wasn't perfect. He has to take that down with sugar or salt.

She was broken, too. She wasn't here to just fix him. If he could be fixed.

If either of them could ever be "fixed" at all.

It took a minute to consider, but Steve is the one that squeezes her hand back. He doesn't say a word. For a while, they lay like this, until Beth feels the need to fill the silence.

"Thank you for telling me this, Steve. It means a lot to me. I hope it…means a lot to you."

When he doesn't respond, Beth has to strain to see why. She can only make out the outline of him—his head is propped against her shoulder, his face completely relaxed. He's fast asleep.

* * *

When morning finally struck, Steve found himself being toured around Beth's small apartment, and it began a little something like this:

"This is not how I pictured getting to see your bedroom," Steve comments thoughtlessly, glancing around at the shelves of books, and knit-knacks. There's a picture of a mosaic style sunflower hanging in the hall, filled in with different fingerprints dyed orange and yellow in sticky, shiny looking metallic paint.

"You pictured seeing my bedroom?" Beth tries not to laugh, feeling the tips of her ears burning red.

Steve snapped back, his eyes wide in realisation. "No—No, that…that didn't come out right."

"Relax!" Beth tries to hide her own embarrassment. "It's wild enough that you're even here right now." Suddenly a different kind of interest sparks behind her blue eyes. "Would you…care to see my humble living space?"

Steve's up at the idea of moving around. He's still sort've groggy, but he'll always take moving over rest.

The living room connects all the rooms together—bedroom, one bathroom, kitchen. There's a hallway towards the back that leads to her bedroom, one door to her bathroom, another side door back out into the living room.

The living room itself is square in design. There's a loveseat that basically makes up the couch—black and a little beat up. A coffee table is pulled in front, resting at the couch's feet. She has a flat screen television that reminds Steve of Stark's Tower, and not in a very fun way. An armchair is flipped so that it is facing the front wooden door for some reason. He also spots a bookshelf, broad in the corner, filled with titles he's never heard of. They all seem very classical—or medical. Something about minds. But there's also a title about kittens in hats, so he assumes he wouldn't be completely clueless.

It's in the kitchen that Steve finds himself bombard by how famished he is. It's painted a dark green, with purple finishes along the cabinets. A refrigerator stands stolidity to the left. Across the kitchen's small table, Steve takes notice of the glossy shimmer of a magazine pile stacked up high. He ganders the cover, disregarding, before a pair of dark eyes steel him into place.

Stark.  _Tony Stark_  is looking up at him from the cover of magazine called  _GQ._ His dark brown eyes are poised for the flash of a camera. He's dressed handsomely to the nines in a black leather jacket, under coat button up, silver tie, facial hair trimmed like it's always perfect—not red from nicks, or his eyes brunt out from lack of sleep or Lord knows what else. Steve sees words like:  _dashing_ ,  _sexiest man alive_ , and  _womanizer_ slapped all over the space around the billionaire. Steve's face is frozen in dislike—when Beth turns back towards him, her face is equally alarmed. She spots where his eyes are sewn and tries to play it cool.

"Not a fan of Mister Stark, I see?"

Steve looks at her blankly, his stomach churning. "Are  _you?"_

Beth tries not to laugh at the loathing in his voice. "I mean, he helped save the city, so I can't say he isn't a hero. He seems really funny in his interviews. And, like, his assistant, Virginia Potts? She helps give to local artists and charities around town—and she's seems like a good person. And she likes him, so." She gives a small shrug. "How bad could he be?"

Steve resists smacking his head on the table, or tossing Tony's smug expression out the front door. He recognizes that tie now. It's the one Tony had gave him, now hanging in his closet. The one he wore on his date with Beth.

"I suppose so," Steve says with plenty of grit. "You like reading about him?"

"Sure. Those are Ronda's though. Er…the one...that…"

"Tased me," Steve finishes awkwardly, "I recall."

Beth begins to say something else, but suddenly she turns again, her face panicked. "Hold on—gonna need to call her—" Her voice is muffled by the walls.

Steve bides his time by flipping through the magazines—trying to pretend that he's burning up the ink with his eyes, disgusted. If only the public really understood who Tony Stark really was. Beth's soon back with a clothy purple jacket over one arm.

Steve seriously can't let it go. "And your friend, Ronda, right? She really likes Stark, huh?"

"Oh yes," Beth finds herself grinning at the thought of mean-bean Ronda actually feeling romantic for once. "It's a little much sometimes. I'm pretty sure she'd have a shrine to him, if she could."

"And how," Steve mumbles, pushing the dark eyed, calculating stare of Tony away from him.

Beth's brows furrow carefully, as if she's waiting for more. Steve looks up at her questioningly.

"…and how, what?" Beth finally asks, her head tilted endearingly.

Steve blinks, trying not to blush. "Oh—no, I meant there was nothing more to say—I was just agreeing with you."

Beth's soft pink smirk is back again, just like when they shared popcorn together. "Right! I knew that, of course." The laughter in her voice makes Steve feel as if she's laughing with him, and hopefully not at him, like Clint and Tony have.

"Well…I gave Ronda a call, and she apparently got up this morning and took my shift that I was going to work." Beth grimaces again. "But I figure..if I'm gonna be here with you, I guess we should do something for breakfast, right?"

_Food, right_ ,  _what normal folks thought about in the morning._  Steve tries to focus. "Sure. Are we eating here?"

"Well," Beth plays nervously with the edge of her cardigan. "I…really don't cook that well. I'm trying to learn, but ah…" She looked at her bare cabinets. "I suppose I haven't been thinking about guests much lately."

"Hm," Steve hummed at her, trying not to pass judgment. In the 30's, it just seemed like a thing that nearly everyone knew how to do—sure, the gal usually did the deed, but bringing some type of scrap to the table; They didn't have much during the Depression—but you made do with that, too. "I could look around. I bet I could make something."

Beth couldn't contain the look of surprise that lit up her face. "You cook?"

"It's not very good stuff. But, I see that you have the basics. Flour, some sugar, eggs. I could make pancakes, probably."

"Actually, that bag up there could be a thing of rat poison." Beth says with finality, nervous to have Steve poking around her kitchen and see the horror that was her surviving off of Pop Tarts and Diet Coke. "I'm betting on McDonalds. Besides. Ronda…well, she wants to see us. It's not exactly an option, considering what's happened. And um."

Steve's blue eyes are on her steadily, a touch apprehensive. "Yes?"

"Well, your clothes…it's sort've our fault about what happened. Do you want to go…shopping? I was going to get you a new shirt. One um, not covered in blood?"

"I…" He glances at his shirt, one side stained black, then at his phone, debating. "If I can call Natasha first. She'll be worried, I'm sure. But…yeah. Honestly, I'm not one for shopping. But I like being with you."

Beth's laugh is gentle, her smile delighted. "My friend mad at me, your friends upset with you. It's going to be an interesting day from all sides, I'm sure."

* * *

**AN:**  Beth has crazy premonition, because what happens next is going to be so much fun, I can't even being with tell you guys. So I won't. ;) Looks like Steve gets to meet Ronda. As, er, Ronda's already met Steve. That'll be…something. And the rest of the Avengers getting involved? Oh God. Poor…poor everyone. Things are about to get slightly hilarious. Except be warned for darkness. Not everyone is happy about Steve's new gal.  
also, it's so much fun to have throw back to older chapters and just tiny jokes that I think are hilarious and just how.


	20. Pepper's Discompliance

* * *

I'm a loose bolt of a complete machine.

What a match:

I'm half-doomed and you're semi-sweet.

* * *

There's a black and gold alarm clock sitting at the edge of the quartz crystal cut nightstand that reads out to Pepper that it's 7:22 in the morning. At first, she's annoyed that she's up 30 minutes earlier than she has to be, but then she notices that she's entirely alone in the bedroom. It's usually Tony's shoulder that blocks out the eyes of the clock from Pepper, usually Tony that awakens just barely enough to tell Jarvis to snooze it for ten more minutes, knowing full well that Pepper can't spare a second, but he pins her anyway and demands to be kissed.

But things haven't been usual in a very long time.

She pulls her hand slowly along the empty space beside her, the silk sheets rippling through her fingers like water. They are untouched and crisp on Tony's side, just as they were yesterday and the day before that, and two weeks ago as well. She frowns into the downy pillow, a wide ache opening inside of her chest. For a moment, she reaches out; grasping the pillow he usually sleeps on, and holds it to her chest, pressing her face into the soft fabric. It's so clean, so completely dismissed that it doesn't smell like him anymore. There's no  _1872_  or Serge Lutens'  _Mortel_ that's hidden carefully along the silver sheets tinged with auburn and gold. Pepper glances at the mahogany minimalist dresser, littered halfway with used bottles sporting missing caps of cologne—hundreds, maybe thousands of dollars of designer scents to hide the mist of alcohol that covered his mouth, his neck, and his clothes, completely untouched.

Pepper never cared about any of the show that Tony puts on. It used to be that being wealthy meant you had to have the latest and greatest, even if it smelled terrible. And, label or not, it often smelled just that. She preferred when he'd forget to hide—when he'd step out of the shower, stare at her with his dark eyes and cleverly make a comment about her nightgown before slipping under the sheets, his fingers already working the straps to her bra—even with his teeth, if he felt really witty. His scent was always rich—slightly tangy with a kind of unnatural chemical or motor oil. A kind of layer that seemed to be built into him, and never truly went away. Pepper always knew that no one would ever be able manufacture anything remotely close to Tony Stark ever again.

She used to hate it when he would reek of Goldschläger or vodka—but a part of her finds herself wondering if she'd get him back at all. She'd take all of his flaws—Hell, she took his flaws years ago when she was just his sectary and she saw him for the arrogant, cunning womanizing genius that he was—and the unstable, slightly controlling side of him that he'd mask. When it came to Tony, Pepper had seen it all, and then some. But she loves him anyways. She only hopes that she's not somehow pushing him away. Or that maybe he's pushing her away—and they'll keep shoving each other stubbornly until they both take the plunge into whatever dark dreams keep him away from her at night.

She tightens her grip on his pillow, taking gentle notice of the tiny splashes of dark stains that break up the solid pattern between her fingertips. Honestly, she doesn't know who cries more at night over this agonizing pain that Tony refuses to knowledge and Pepper can't forever battle to articulate. He isn't the only one with nightmares. She still is completely paranoid of being on-call for Tony, after missing his calls from his…departure from Earth.

She breathes in the scentless air around her, devoid of warmth but completely soaked in the depression of their love life.

All she can do for this morning is understand that he's not beside her again, and, as always, she has to go find him.

* * *

He has to have Natasha repeat twice, slowly and clearly, what exactly she's done.

"You  _left_  him there?" The billionaire repeated slowly. "Are you  _insane?"_

"He walked painfully, through snow, bleeding out, to get to her. I highly doubt taking him away from what he wanted in the first place would be any better of a solution."

"Uh-yeah, that's just peachy. Because if that  _had_  happened maybe he'd realise what a lunatic he was, leave that woman alone, and not do it again."

In the kitchen, Thor sits between the pair, shoulders barred, as if waiting for the exact moment where he'd have to separate the spy and billionaire when it comes to blows. Bruce fixates on cleaning his glasses over and over, the pads of his forefinger and thumb working the cloth harder as the loudness in everyones' voice starts to rise—while Barton takes a seat next to Natasha, an arm set on the table as if he's bracing the whole conversation together.

"Again?" Natasha shakes her head, and the speed of her fine red hair seemed to thread together like a disagreement of fire. "Stark, this would have never happen if we all just paid more attention in the first place."

"'Paid more attention'?" Tony emphasizes, his ears ringing with contempt. "To what? His depression? Don't you think we have  _bigger_  things to worry about? World War 3 over Aliens? The return of the Chitauri—fucking Asgardians ripping the fabric of time apart?"

Thor's stormy eyes crash against Tony's, and his voice rumbles deeply: "There is no such occurrence happening at this time, Man of Iron. Your precautions are meaningful, but meet bitter ends for a foe that may never come again."

Bruce watches Tony pale discreetly, the worry lines along his face more visible than ever before.

Natasha bites in once more. "And you think that just focusing on the main problem will make everything else turn out okay?"

Tony avoids the scorn in her question. " _Steve_  was never a problem until now. Sure, he has obvious issues, but he functioned for months, hasn't he? He was fine enough. He'd do his job, do it well to the ninth degree, and then quietly go back to doing whatever boring as hell hobby he likes. It was _perfect._ "

There is a dark, aggrieve light behind Natasha's emerald eyes. "You don't understand how people work, emotionally, do you Tony? You just think it's so simple as to add or subject or divide and an answer is there. But this problem is an emotional one. That is my specialty. I work people by their emotional spectrum. And I can tell you that it is a very fragile situation."

"You?" Tony barks a laugh. "Yeah, because you're the Miss Universe in Polite Conversing?"

"Better than you do. You can work emotions on a physical level. You can get sex. You can—what do you call it? 'Fuck with people'? I do that as well. I  _fuck with people_  to get what needs to occur."

Doctor Banner clears his throat, bringing the noise to a halt. "The problem here, I do believe, is within the questionable safety, be it information, physical, or otherwise, of a civilian into the danger of our lives." He pauses, and the obsession of cleansing his glasses ceases. "And S.H.I.E.L.D. We can't forget how badly S.H.I.E.L.D. takes to situations like this."

Tony's pointer finger flippantly points to Banner, as if the physicist is holding up a sign that says:  _YOU'VE JUST GOT SERVED._

"Yes, some reason! Thank you, Bruce! Seriously." Tony pats a hand against his chest with every word. "That's what I meant."

Natasha's lips firm up in consideration, but her eyes continue to drill into Tony.

Clint's hands spread themselves firmly over the fibers on the smooth counter. "Look, let's just make this simple." Clint's blue eyes collect his entire team's in one go. "Who thinks that Steve should dump the chick, come back to the Tower, and pretend like this never happened?"

Tony's entire arm lunges upwards, trying to gain pervious account over his roommates. It takes a moment, but beside him, Bruce's arm slowly raises, his eyes focused in an intense accordance with the counter top. When Natasha feels the hairs on her arms stand up, she's shocked to see Thor debating the motion of agreeing as well—when his wrist begins to move up, Natasha has the nerve to pull it down.

The contact of their skin sends a jolt down her spine like touching an electric socket.

"Thor," Natasha's voice is cutting against his nerves. "You really think that this is what Steve deserves?"

The God of Thunder looks hopeless, caught in between his friends. "It is not a matter of what Captain Rogers deserves. It is a matter of what makes the rest of the warriors feel most comfortable."

Natasha's glare is relentless. "Do you realise that you're taking part in a vote that would've taken Jane away from you, correct?"

This stops Thor and his eyes suddenly narrow. From across the table, Bruce can feel the pull of static across the back of his neck, like the skin of a balloon rubbed and then ripped away for the direct purpose of stinging down his back.

Thor's eyes are cautious. His words ring back with a slight chill, as if he is preparing make sure Natasha's words are wrong by all costs. "To what do you imply? Jane Foster is of no concern here."

"I think we're forgetting that Jane—and Pepper, for that matter, are civilians that have come into extreme contact and are now critical part of our daily lives. What if suddenly some strangers—or worse, a group of people that you know very well, told you that being with them, hearing their voice, was completely unhallowed?"

"Pepper doesn't count. She was with me long before A—" Inwardly he grimaces but his voice remains flippant as he trades for a new word. "—llocations between my father and the fate of his—now my—company." Tony rubs at his jaw, dirty nails scratching the buzzing inside of his skin. He's sweating just talking about Pepper like this, and he suddenly finds himself getting antsy over where she is right now. He breathes in— _asleep. You checked on her 480 seconds ago. She's fine. You're fine._  
  
"Why are you so hell-bent on this sick, twisted love affair, Romanoff? Rogers get under your skin that easily?"

"Of course not," Natasha snaps, offended. "I think in regards to what I've seen, you are blowing a positive effect on Rogers life that will do more good than it ever will bad. Imagine yourself without Jane."

Natasha's bold green eyes charge into the blackness inside of Tony's eyes. "Without Pepper."

Tony's mouth sets itself almost into a sharp, grim smirk—fearless in the gaping hole that he knows Natasha is seeing in him that is not just on the outside of his chest.  _Look,_  Tony wants to scream at her, fingers locked into the back of her hair, bringing her down closer to the level of insanity that he can't bring himself to go to yet— _that's exactly what I'm picturing 24/7._   _I'm projecting her at all costs, and I don't give a single fuck if it's selfish. I'm a selfish man. I've done terrible, selfish things—and if I'm digging this hole I'm burying myself and Pepper with it._  
  
"Do any of us really have any idea what keeps Steve from just walking away? Even from killing himself?" Natasha continues.

Suddenly a shattering sound echoes from under the table—Bruce's hands have stopped. There's a crack in the left eye piece of his glasses from where he's rubbed too hard.

Tony scoffs at such a ridiculous idea. "Please. You're full of it. Rogers wouldn't dare. If not for the cause of the good ol' American people, I'm pretty sure it's a sin to kill yourself to that God he happens to believe in."

"Do you listen to yourself when you talk, Stark? You're just going to use Rogers like that?"

Tony sets his teeth directly on edge, gritting out his words slowly. "I'm not using anyone. I'm not asking for help from anyone. There _isn't_  a problem. You're  _making_  it a problem."

"Help?" Clint picks at the word—and Tony's eyes rapidly flash to him, confused.

"Help—I didn't say help." Tony tries to backtrack, but it's out and heavy in the silence between his teammates, who are staring at him, and he's just raving like an idiot. "I meant—Hell. Rogers. I meant help for Rogers."

"So you're willing to give this a chance?"

"We didn't finish voting. So far, it's Banner, myself, possibly Thor—Clint. What about you?"

All eyes jump to Hawkeye, and he tries to not shrug it off. He can particularly feel Tony digging into him over their early morning conversation before. "I understand both sides. I'm waiting until Rogers gets back. He has to come back eventually."

Tony heaves an exaggerated sigh just before he mutters: "You had to be a pussy about it."

Bruce's voice overtakes Tony's insult. "I don't want to make things any more difficult for Steve than it has to be. I talked to him the night before over this, and even I'll admit that he seemed happy. And we haven't seen Steve make much of any emotion in a long time." He face darkens, as if talking about happiness was a foreign idea, a mythical story that was told him to as a child but never came true. "But I don't support this. It's too complicated already." His eyes flash. "Besides. Steve was bleeding out—I checked him. Many times. That shouldn't have happened. I just want him back as soon as possible so I can understand what I missed."

"I'm waiting for a call from him." Natasha deadpans to answer Banner's question. Tony seems to bristle at the sudden news.

"A call? Seriously?" His black eyes narrow furiously. "What else do we not know, Agent?"

Natasha licks her lips, bracing herself, her face calm. "I told Rogers that it is only Thor and I that know about Beth."

Tony's eyes seem more bloodshot for moment until he remembers that that is the woman's name in this whole stupid fiasco. "You told Rogers that we don't know about his lil' moonlit rendezvous? What am I supposed to do? Act like I don't care?"

"You never did before," Natasha says snappily. "And you didn't see him, Tony. It's  _bad._ "

"Spare me," Tony utters, completely repugnant of how much 'worse' Rogers could possibly be. He was fine because there were much larger problems to deal with. He had to be fine. It was  _fine._

"Captain Rogers preformed an act that Natasha refused to enlighten me of." Thor's considerate rumble treads through Natasha's warning glare. "Perhaps now is the time I can request it to be clarified."

Bruce's sigh is auditory through his nose, rubbing at a temple for patience. "Go for it, Thor."

Thor swallows, his face surprisingly mute, as if a universal instinct was informing him that whatever he is about to ask is disturbing in nature. "Upon battered awakening, semi-conscious, Captain Rogers used his tongue to…prod along his teeth. It was most unnerving, although I do not understand what it means. Tell me; is it a human custom upon all awakening? Such as brushing with the white paste on the tiny brush?"

Thor's usual mixed-turn-of-phrase doesn't yield a smirk out of anyone. They're all dead quiet, just staring at him. Bruce is the one that has the nerve to continue.

"Thor. Er. In our world's war time, there were missions where it was questionable if a soldier would come back alive, and so they'd give you a way out, so to speak."

Thor's golden brows furrows, dismayed. "One goes into battle knowing that death is a glorious honour."

Bruce's jaw flexed, failing to remain gentle about the subject. "Well, here Thor, not everyone is so…honourable. Sometimes if you fall in combat, they don't kill you. They capture you. They torture you, and sometimes your being alive compromises the lives of thousands of others. And it's better if you were to die, instead. So they give you this kind of…poison. A kind of pill and they place it along your teeth, so that, if you ever need to, you could swallow it and commit suicide."

Thor's face is stunned for moment. "It is not unheard of, this capturing and this torture, to Asgard. But…to think that one such as Captain Rogers would resort to that manner of death. It is most unnerving."

Clint drums his fingers quietly over his kneecap. "So you guys watched him try to find a pill?"

Natasha nods one single time.

Clint whistles, unable to imagine such a sight.

"It's better if we just try to keep things as under wraps as possible. For Steve's sake." Natasha's eyes flash to Tony's. "For now."

Tony's silence is welcomed, but his eyes remained tight in concentration. "So, what, we just wait for a call? Who knows what'll happen by then? Are we going to talk to him still? Who's going to make sure he gets here okay?"

Natasha's smirk perks up, sharp on her lips. "Interested, Tony?"

"Don't get your Victoria's Secret Agent undies in bunch. For Steve's sake, he needs to come back soon—for Bruce to look him over. Deal?"

"Close enough. I'll let you know what he says."

"Whatever," Tony closes, standing up from his seat. He's gone down the hallway in moments, leaving the rest of the Avengers to eye Natasha wearily.

"I'm sorry about your glasses, Doctor." Clint adds regretfully, as he watches Bruce fidget with the pieces of glass. "Things get a little intense in the ol' noggin'?"

Bruce manages a short, mild smile. "It happens. I need new ones anyhow. Which reminds me." His dark brown eyes turn towards Natasha. "When you have a moment, could I request something of you?"

* * *

Pepper stands at the edge of the stairs to Tony's lab, already able to hear that he's listening to some discourse, volubly bubbling across the wireless lines that make the speakers in his lab ring out. Her steps are practically whispers that he'll never hear, he's so enthralled. He has his back turned to face one monitor, and over his shoulder Pepper carefully spies that he's somehow tracking a call from the Tower. There is a part of a round thick headphone over Tony's own black hair, but Pepper can't help but feel a flurry of surprise when she sees what it is he's listening to.

 _"Steve's phone?"_  Pepper tries to make a sound bite into his closed off world. "Natasha's—You're hacking into their phone conversation?"

Tony continues to listen, completely unaware. She reaches out, barely using her nails to tap at his shoulder.

He  _jumps_ —pushing backwards and, surprised herself, Pepper backs up a few feet from him to give Tony space.

Tony barely catches the ending of what a voice behind him is saying.

"—listening in to their conversation?" Tony's heart nearly impales itself on his teeth it hits the roof of his mouth so hard.

He swivels in his chair, toes digging into the cold titled floor beneath him in a weak attempt to stop from leaping up. He's staring at her staring at him, and he can see the tiny humbled reflection of himself in the green of her eyes, like the shadow of himself is burning in the acid of their angry colour. "Pep—"

The freckles on her face seem sharper as her glare increases, but she continues to say nothing, her mouth only slightly agape.

He swallows, digs the earpiece from out of his left ear, but it's caught in the coils that the grease has caused in his hair, and he lets it hang there, undeniable evidence to what he's done. He thinks of a hundred different ways to come off against the problem— _it's my tower, and I need to know what goes on—I'm just really worried about Rogers' condition—Natasha hacks into my companies back account to the damn dime, and I can't sneak in on a conversation?—_ but his tongue continues to scrape at the back of his gums self-consciously. He almost thinks he can taste congealed blood, and he wonders when that happened.

Suddenly, her arms, once tight over her chest, are open and she's walking towards him, reaching out her hands—but they stop just before they make contact. Tony's slightly off-put to what she was planning to do—he almost expected a slap, but her eyes are too careful and sad-looking for that.

"Did you think Natasha was going to lie to you?" Pepper asks him in frustration.

"Pepper, she let Steve stay with that girl.  _Stay_  with her. Do you know what that can do? It could have been a thousand times better if she'd just listened to me and brought him home. I had to make sure there wasn't unconsidered damage that Natasha would let slip because she's convinced that this is a good idea."

Pepper's neutral expression of shock widens into genuine anger. "What isn't a good idea, Tony? Sure, it didn't go exactly to plan, but it seems like it's harmless."

The words are caught like fish hooks in the back of his throat, desperate to explain. Finally he settles for the best explanation he can manage.

"It's just…it's complicated."

"Is it?" Pepper's voice softens.

Tony sighs, a palm pressed to his eye to stop the pounding in the base of his skull. "Come here."

Pepper stands, still indignant. "No."

A hand pats his lap, jeans slightly starched from being worn for days straight. "Come on, Pep."

"No," She sounds firm, but Tony keeps trying.

He puts on his best  _you-know-you-wanna_  grin, and opens his arms to the tall walls of his basement lab. He's grateful that most of the lights are off. Shadows press in on where the light from his chest can't reach. He only hopes that Pepper doesn't look up, as over thirty finished suits are lined across the walls on thin, cube shelves that spiral into the darkness, staring down at them from above, like steam punk angels. He swallows, unable to look at them now. His precious work that can take away his demons. He blinks, and it's almost like they're moving, skittering above him, judging him. Like she's judging him. Like he's judging himself. Maybe they are demons as well.

"Come to bed," Pepper retorts into the silence, and that very phrase spins Tony's head right 'round to reality. "I woke up early. There's still time."

He blinks, presses a finger into one ear, tries to fix his hair, and then remembers that she's waiting for him to answer. The way she says ' _there's still time'_  feels strangely perplexing. Like she means anything but the fact that there's still time. Maybe there's not. Maybe he's using it all up.

"You…you wanna—"

"Yes," her green eyes glitter temptingly and Tony feels his heart rate pick up. Inside, she's trying not to sound so desperate to make him leave this underground place. "We haven't in a while. I'm getting worried that there are other parts of you that I'm not aware are turning robotic."

Tony laughs, and the sound echoes around them—brass and somehow forlorn. "It hasn't been that long—come on!"

She sighs, and the light goes out of her eyes. Tony shuts his mouth, wondering what he's done now to kill the moment. She's quiet, just waiting for him, but he doesn't know what to say.

"Tony…do you know how long it's been since we've had sex?"

He's digging deep into the catalog of his brain—meetings, appointments, aliens, danger, numbers, drinking, paranoia, nightmares, bio-chips. Nope. There's a data error for sex. A missing file. He wishes he could blue screen.

"Ah," He's sweating—him, Tony fuckin' Stark, is  _sweating_  over the idea of  _sex_. He's confused at himself. "I—" His eyes dart around for some type of help, but inanimate men stare down at him, cold and cruel. He tries to mutter some kind of number—4 days. 18 days. 24 days. None of them are correct.

"Three months." Pepper says, her voice brittle. "In years of knowing you, and since our relationship, Anthony, you never go three  _days_  without making love to me."

Tony swallows, hard. "Pep…I…I don't…I don't know what to say."

She throws back her head, her voice shaking out a peal of emotionless laughter. "And that! That's new!  _You_  don't know what to say. Well I do." She stares at him, and Tony feels his knuckles tightening over his jeans.

A pause. Tony feels his heart drumming. She hasn't finished. He doesn't understand.

"Yes?" He breaks the silence like a tap of a hammer that's shattering the glass between them. And Jesus, does it break.

" _God damn it_ ,  _Tony!_ " Pepper screams. Her fingers ball into fists that she's risen above her head, only to slam them down uselessly at her sides. "Why can't you just _say_  it?"

"Say  _what?!_ " Tony tries not to meet her level of sudden hysterics, but even his own voice feels very loud.

She sucks in a deep breath—her expression broken into a sob, halfway out of her mouth. She covers her lips.

Tears. Instantly, he's up, nearly sprinting to her—his arms wrap around her, trying to steer her into his chest, but she's resisting. "Pep—I—Don't cry, please, please don't cry." He smooths through the soft curls of her red hair. "You know how I can't function when you cry." He places a finger under her chin to force her to look up at him.

Her waterproof eyeliner is barely doing its job, as her tears run down her cheeks with the faintest outline of grey. Her freckles sprinkle themselves over her cheek and the bridge of her nose, and her bright green eyes stare out from their watery world like a tiny, shimmery, wonderful bubble of intelligent, domineering, heartbreaking and sexy.

 _God, even when she's so angry at me she's crying she's still freaking gorgeous._  Tony thinks to himself, trying to edge away from the waterworks.

"I jus'—I just want 'ou to be 'kay." She mutters against his shirt, although Tony can barely make out anything she's saying. At least it sounds cute.

"Don't cry, okay, Pep? Please?" He tries to give her the puppy eyes, but those are little rusty for some reason.

She sniffles, and she seems to brighten being close to him again. He has to admit that he misses being close to her too.

"I don't even know what we're arguing about," He tries to give a smile to get a smile, but like wildfire, everything he's saying is burning repulsion out of her. Her face suddenly turns passive and distant.

 _This hurts_ , She thinks.

 _You don't understand,_  he sighs inwardly.  _I don't know how to stop.  
_

She leans against the warmth of his neck, and pretends like they're in bed. They're on a beach. They're anywhere else than his  _fucking_ lab surrounded by his  _fucking_ suits while he  _fucking_ picks himself apart and there's nothing she can do because he wouldn't listen to it even if she screamed it during an  _orgasm_.

She can feel herself being lead backwards—towards his leather computer chair where there are six different huge HD monitors reading off New York news, traffic, world events, S.H.I.E.L.D. files, IMs from Happy. He sits down, and pulls her into his lap. They're a tangle of limbs, as she still tries to remain apart—but leaning against the warm wool of his shirt, feeling the bump of his Arc Reactor against the small of her back, makes her feel normal again.

"I love you," Tony says quietly into the back of her neck. He presses a kiss into her skin after the word, wondering if that'll mean anything when he can't kiss her goodnight tonight. Again.

"I love you too," Pepper replies, defeated.

He holds her to him, surrounded in the still, cold darkness of his lab and pretends that there isn't 60 other pairs of metal eyes guarding them from anything that could possibly hurt them. She's safe like this. Right here. They're safe. Why can't she  _see_  that?

They stay like that for a long time. Pepper carefully holds his hand in hers, and tries not to gasp when she turns his wrist over and sees something green, dark, and slightly oozing appearing from a thick tight mess of bandages around his forearm.

The eyes of the monitors tell Tony that she has to leave soon. He tries to widen his shoulders to block it out, just like before, but she's already preparing to move away.

"I have to go," Pepper says softly. Her hand slips from his. She turns and kisses him softly on the lips—lingering the kiss there until she's nothing but a fury of hips that swing through the shadows, up the stairs, and out of his vision.

"Fuck," Tony curses, bringing a hand down to smash it into some bolts and piece along the desk. He deliberately wants the shards to stab into his bio-chip wound until he's good and bleeding. He pretends that it's the raw pain that brings tears to the corner of his eyes and he leans back in his chair.

"I'm sorry," he whispers no one but the empty eyes of his Iron Man suits. "I'm so fucking sorry."

* * *

"Sir, I'd like to make an observation that you have not eaten in 27 hours."

"Tell me something I don't know, Jarvis." Tony snaps irritability.

"Sir, every pulled source that you have required me to locate concludes that Miss Ore is not a dangerous person of interest."

"There's something I don't like about this. Maybe it's her. Maybe it's not. But something is not right. I'm  _missing_  something—but what?" Tony claws at the knots in his hair, nails tearing at his scalp. He rubs at his jaw, pulling at the skin and creating a red finger marks over his short, finely trimmed facial hair. "Jarvis, re-scan all cellular devices associated with my tower. All incoming, outgoing, and missed calls. Check for patterns, bugs, sketchy time charts, I don't care."

There is a brief silence in which Tony doesn't expect much to happen. But then Jarvis's proper voice is there from the ceiling.

"There is a persistently missed call that Captain Rogers has not answered for the past week. It's a numerical code is not associated with any known listed within the group requested."

Tony pauses, his dark eyes locked to the screen before him, allowing him to stare out the installed cameras on the windows into the overly bright New York skyline. The sky is a deep blue. There aren't any clouds. He still feels very disturbed.

"Show it to me."


	21. A Light Snowfall

* * *

McDonald's, Steve decides, is a place made for people watching. It feels like there are over a hundred people crammed inside—the wide double-doors never cease flying open to yet another crowd of patrons rushing through their day. Tables wrap along the floor, each with a  _Happy Holidays_  greeting placemat and mini-paper napkin holders. He vaguely wonders what Happy Holidays means in relation to Merry Christmas. What went wrong with good old Christmas?

The fast-food joint is decorated corporately for the Christmas season. Long garlands coat each door like a sharply pine scented doorbell lavished in green. Tiny LED lights are strung about the ceiling that blink in chipper timing to the invisible radio speakers laced into the grey-tiled ceiling, whilst hand crafted snowflakes fall from silver twine, suspended in a frozen animation of reaching the earth. Although it's completely snow washed outside it is warm doors. The windows are fogged up from where Beth and Steve are sitting. They're sitting in a sideways booth that's pushed up against the wall, but opened at the sides so that they can see each other as well as the rest of the costumers, which allows Steve his missed pastime.

There is a little girl with dark ringlets and hazel coloured eyes that is shyly staring at Steve from her booster seat at one of the tables. Her mother, and what seems to be an old grandfather figure, or family friend, is chatting excitedly amongst the little gal's party. Steve tries not to gain too much down time with the elderly he happens across. It makes him feel entirely exposed—as if the years of their living on this earth has allowed them to harness the greatest of all superpowers: experience. One of these days he's afraid they're going to look too hard into his eyes and see him for all he's worth, and with frost bitten lips and a wispy, ancient rasp, they'll say:

" _Don't I know you?"_

And Steve will recognize their voice all too well.

When Beth goes to order their food, (apparently it's all about do-it-yourself-kinda deals now-a-days, which is fine with Steve) the blond soldier manages a small wave at the little toddler across the way. The little girl wiggles, giggling, in her seat, short legs kicking about in delight. She smiles, her cheeks wind-kissed from the chill, jolly and red. She has some kind of toy in her hand. It almost looks like a purple dragon. The little dear pushes it around the table, knocking over her fries, and swishes it skywards, making a tiny roaring sound, which he at first feels disturbed about. Then Steve can't help but laugh at himself for a moment. How times have changed between how boys and girls played.

Steve waves at her faintly one more time, chuckling at her zealous reaction, before studying the crafted snowflakes above once more. Each seems to be coloured differently—almost immaturely, as there are colours that are entirely not themed rightly for Christmas. Pink, yellow, orange. Following their drizzling pattern, his view runs into a banner along the wall:

"DONATE A DOLLAR TO SAVE A LOST CHILD:  _"The Battle of New York" children and lost families collection unit_. Every penny goes to the memory of a child for the benefit of those left orphaned by the tragedy. McDonald's is a proud supporter of the  _Unite New York agency_. Ask at the counter how you can give today. Child snowflake set free with donation. Have your child decorate it here and we can hang it in our store!"

Slowly, Steve feels his heart sinking deep inside of his chest. His tongue feels heavy. He looks at all the paper snowflakes, hundreds of them, dripping from the ceiling and practices breathing. The tips of his fingers start to tingle with a chill, but he can't stop staring.

The faces of the snowflakes spin slowly, and he can read names printed on them—some in loopy letters, and some in tiny spidery print. Names. Names of children, lost or not, that he could not protect.

He hears a buzzing sound due to his acute hearing, and finds himself staring back at the dark haired girl again. She smiles at him, amused by this stranger, but Steve cannot bring himself to smile back at her.

From overhead, he takes notice of the radio changing to a new song. At first, Steve listens to it to distract himself, but…for some strange reason…it sounds… _familiar._

 _I'll be home for Christmas…_  
You can plan on me.  
Please have snow, and mistletoe,  
and presents on the tree.  
  
He blinks. He's staring at the ceiling as if it's playing some horrible trick on him. He knows those words to that song. He's heard it somewhere presently. He knows that song. He often tuned out most music around him—it was mostly electronic purring and trashy sounds anyways—too obscure and fast and full of nonsense for his taste—and yeah, the man singing it wasn't the artist he originally knew. No. This guy certainly wasn't any Bing Crosby.

Steve's awed smile turns melancholy over just hearing that name again in his mind. Bing Crosby. He just out right assumed that the crooner had dried up in the past eras. But he sang that song. And if that song was still around…

Steve finds himself humming along to the song when Beth arrives back at the table, although Steve doesn't realise it. He can only picture the last time he ever heard Crosby sing "I'll Be Home For Christmas" through a busted up French gramophone. He had Peggy next to him then, as well. Her wavy chocolate hair resting against his shoulder. It was one of the harder nights for Steve then. When he went 'round in circles over Bucky's death—his Howling Commando's defeats—his mother's illness. But Peggy just forced him to sit down and  _be in the moment_  with her, as she called it. Peggy didn't really enjoy Christmas carols. She had crinkled her perfect nose in frank, but adorable, distain, when Steve questioned why. He loved them. They were cheerful and warm in a time of terrible war. 'Too sentimental,' Peggy half-joked, half kissed into his neck. 'Too overly- _American_.' Lord, Steve still feels a buzz in just reminiscing that low whisper of hers…thrilling, even when she poked fun at their different loyalties. Some dizzying British gal enjoying him...

Beth slides into the booth seat across from them, sliding their trays apart. She smiling at him gently and it takes Steve more than a few seconds to correct himself, thrust himself back into the present.

Beth can see the dazed look Steve has when she sits down. It's like she has accidentally shown up in the place of someone else. Carefully, she pushes the trays across and tries not to think about it. There are bigger issues.

"You like Michael Bublé?" She asks carefully. "Doesn't he have a wonderful voice?"

Steve tests speaking. He almost doesn't want to. The song isn't over yet. The memory isn't over yet.

"I haven't…heard this song in a long time." He blinks slowly, and lets the image fade of Peggy's hand settling over his knee, them necking, listening to the record player spin in a soft, sweet dance that Steve can finally follow.

"I always thought this song was so depressing," She tries to stifle an awkward laugh. "Well, I mean, of  _course_  it is. But…I always, always cry over "Blue Christmas". I.." She brushes at her face, trying to stop sounding like an idiot. "I mean that I feel bad that I don't usually get so choked up over this song." She grins guiltily at Steve and wishes she could duck behind her hot cocoa cup.

Steve sits up straighter in his seat. He has no idea what song "Blue Christmas" is and if it makes Beth cry, he isn't sure if he should ever ask, although he is curious. "I'm sorry you feel that way. I think it's a more hopeful song, really."

Beth's light eyebrows rise up. "Hopeful?"

Steve nods brightly, surprised at his own smile. "Well, the writer, he's remembering everything he loves about Christmas. His family, the tree, the love. He misses them, sure, but he hopes to eventually—" He pauses, a knot appearing in his throat, locking his words. He feels frozen for a heartbeat.

Beth reaches out and touches his hand and like a defibrillator to the chest, he knocks painfully against the edge of the table and spits out the rest of his words.

"Come home," he finishes hoarsely. He clears his throat in alarm as a hand rubs at his shirt wearily. "Sorry about that."

Beth can see the embarrassment in Steve's eyes and she pretends to smooth it over. She slowly pulls her hand back.

"Well, sure, he's remembering—but the whole song is like a buildup of some terrible lie to the listener. Because he's not actually going to come home that year. It's only in his dreams."

Steve seems to look at her for a long time before answering. Slowly, he reaches over and pulls at his tray.

"Well, a good dream about home is better than none at all, right?" He finally says, breaking the tension between them.

Beth's mouth makes a tiny pout, as if considering it a twist ending to her years of listening to that crooner of a song.

"I…never thought about it that way, Steve." Her mouth pops slightly when she begins the sentence, but it ends with one of her small, intricate smiles.

He knows this food is terrible for him, but this chocolate chip muffin—No,  _eight_ of the muffins he's already eaten are the  _best_  things he's tasted in 70 years. Beth, sitting across from him, races through only two before she politely sips her hot cocoa and just watches the soldier. He  _wasn't_ kidding when he said he was starving.

"Is that good?" She teases, eyeing the empty inedible flimsy wrappers.

Steve stops mid giant-sized bite, tearing open the entire melted chocolate core of the pastry. "Terrible."

"And the hot chocolate?"

"Dreadful," Steve continues, although now he suddenly remembers his drink. He forces himself to take a swig—because liquid, chocolate or no, was still hydrating, right?

"I'm glad," Beth laughs nervously. She twists her cup, and Steve can see the fragile outline of her fingers trying not to cave in the paper. He stares into her eyes until he finally collects her attention. She's pretending to be interested in anything but the man whom she helped knock out, bleed, and confess her secrets to, sitting in the polyester booth across from her. They've been practically arguing about it since he stepped foot outside of her apartment door, if in between actual conversation. But it was ever pressing.

"Beth, I know you don't believe me but I don't need a hospital."

She twists her cup around in a complete circle before answering back and there is milky brown ring around from where it's leaked through the bottom. "I wasn't thinking about that."

Steve takes a final bite, although he feels like he could probably out eat the crazed morning rush of folks through the New York City traffic with one hand tied behind his back. "Is there anything I can do to ease your mind about it?"

Her eyes seem stuck to the spinning snowflake above their heads. It was obviously made by a child. It's slightly crushed, coloured a deep shade of blue, and a name is labeled to it: Spencer.

"I don't know," She says lamely. She drops her eyes to his own, light blue to dark. "I can't help it. I just get fixated on things like this—like when a friend says they don't feel well in my company. I just ask them over and over." Something shadowy is sitting behind the blue in her eyes. Something Steve can't quite understand.

"Although, I think I'm rather justified here." Beth adds as an afterthought.

He tries not to sigh in defeat.

"Anything at all?" Steve pushes again as openly as he can.

It could be the mix of Christmas colours littered throughout the restaurant, but Beth's face turns a distinct shade of pink. Some of her blonde hair, loosely tied back in tiny silver ribbons, allows for a thick tangle to slide forward along her cheek. Steve's fingers twitch, wanting it out from his view of her lovely face. "I wouldn't know." She repeats.

But Steve gets it. He knows. She's blushing some important reason.

Heaven help him if he only knew why.

"Beth—"

She pushes her near full cup away from her. "I would feel better if we just left, got your shirt, talked to Ronda and got you back to…" She pauses, stuck. "To…not moving around."

Steve looks at her, fighting to not say more than he should. Already has. Already had. He didn't know what was safe anymore, or even if it was needed to be protected. She's already up, purse in hand, rising out of the booth.

"But we really aren't moving right now," Steve starts, lingering his gaze around. "And, honestly, I've never been inside of a McDonald's before. I'd like to stay longer, if you don't mind."  _And I don't want to see Stark Tower anytime soon._

This changes Beth off-guard—well, if she even felt on guard about the incredible events of yesterday. She only figures today shouldn't be any different. "What was that?"

Steve glances at her, off put by her puzzled expression. "What was…what?"

"You," She finds herself slowly siding back down into the booth against her will. "Haven't been in here…before?" A pointer finger touches the center of the table for effect. "That's what you meant?"

Steve wishes he had ordered anything else to put into his mouth right that second. He halfway contemplates the styrofoam of his hot chocolate. "Uh, well, since my departure anyway."

She lowers her brows in disbelieve, a smirk on her lips. "You really meant not ever. Wow." A pause. "Did you ever say when you left? Like, what, 2007? 2010? Or, what month?"

Steve swallows roughly, and his side starts to prickle in a new kind of pain that brings a sour taste of fear to his mouth. From the corner of his eye he can see the little black haired girl that he had been smiling at before starting to tug on her mother's jacket, a compact meaty hand that is demanding attention, and demanding it right  _now._

"Well," Steve starts. Only to pause. Beth tilts her head, waiting for the rest but it's not coming out. He can't think. He can't think with that little girl staring at him so funnily.

"Mommy—" She cries.

"Uhm," Steve shakes his head. The little girl's voice is too loud. He can see Beth asking him a question, her lips moving, but he can't make out the words, can't really hear the blonde over the cries.

"Mommy!"

Steve furrows his brows, focusing. "Well, I—"

 _"Mommy—"_  She struggles between staring at Steve's shirt or getting her mother's attention. "That man—he has a bad boo-boo!"

He snaps his neck to take in the hazel stare of the girl, and his heart starts hammering.

They have to go. Now. Now. Now. Now.

Steve suddenly is up so fast that his drink spills across the table, reaching out in a hot steam fueled blast to touch their clothing, but he's got Beth's hand in his and pulls her none to carefully from her seat, rushing them out the door. She makes a sound of surprise and protest—enough to have nearly half the restaurant look at their plight, but yet no one moves to help.

The doors rumble with a harsh  _jingle-a-ling_  from the silver bells above the doors as they sprint out without a backwards glance, and it's only after running for a few streets down that Beth can't keep going. She bends over slightly, hands to her knees, and pants, angrily, something Steve did not expect to get whiplash for:

"The hell is  _wrong_  with you?! We can't— _you_  can't be running like this!" Her blue eyes are tight in intense anxiety. "Your side—Why did you do that?"

Steve can feel the eyes of every single person on the avenue slighting to them, and it starts to drain him once more. He places a large hand over his side, digging in his fingers to bunch up the fabric to hide the stains from his blood.

"You didn't hear what she said?" He demands back at her, his voice seemingly loud although he's positive they're so close to each other they're whispering.

"What?" Beth pants, her eyes wide. She sounds completely exasperated. "What who said?"

"The…" Steve can't bring himself to say  _little girl_. He just can't. He licks his lips and tries again. "Someone…in there. Saw this." He motions to the bunch of dark red between the spaces of his fingers like its stuffing shredding out from an old, broken toy. "I know I insisted on eating first but I really felt I needed to eat somethin' or I was gonna be sick again."

Beth has her breath back, and she sucks in the fine cold air. She brings up her hands smoothly, trying to stay calm. "That…that's what I was afraid you were going to say." She breathes in again, and begins calculating a shopping plan in her head. "Let's go have an adventure in clothing." She grimaces. "And then Ronda."

This time, it's Steve who offers his hand out first. His blue eyes seem brighter than the rest of the Christmas lights all around them. Crisp and bold in their blue. Beth takes it effortlessly, sliding her thumb along the back of his knuckles. She tries to get it all straight in her head, but it comes out as a nervous joke:

"I like running with you," She says "but seriously, stop with your side like that. You're going to give me a stroke, soldier."

Steve feels the burn of embarrassment for his reaction. "You know how you said sometimes you feel someone'll look at you while you're working and you suddenly feel like cryin'?"

They start to walk, but they can't look at each other. The snow is slower now. Snowflakes litter the long shop windows. They're raining down along their shoulders, in their light yellow hair.

"Yeah," Beth echoes.

He doesn't say anything for about a block, but when he does, she has to strain to hear it.

"Well I'm just trying my best not to."

* * *

 

 **AN:** And with this chapter, you all have read over 200+ pages of this fanfic. It's so funny, I keep telling myself who would ever want to read my long-winded ridiculously long chapters of a derpy romance between Steve Rogers and Beth the Waitress while I also work in crazy other plot ties and other character development and issues in a slowly moving novel of a story?

Oh.

Well hi there.


	22. Meeting Thor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, Thor arrives to makes things a mess and an unexpected cameo appears.

The  _Salto Della Fede_  café opened up in lot 16, right across from  _Housing Works Used Books_  back in 2003, where it was the height of sub-cultural hipster fashion and anti-modernalites. Unlike  _Used Books_ ,  _Della Fede_ was wooden, hosted dark red ripped cloth signs, and Ronda, personally, can't stand working at either place. But she's happy it's in lower Manhattan, happy it's nearest a transit station, and happy that its customers tip well.

What she's not happy about is this obvious teenaged kid that seriously won't leave.

"I'm waiting for a friend," He says for a third time. He's been sitting at the inside table for over an hour, and Ronda can't help but get a little suspicious. She walks by his table, saying nothing, before turning sharply on her heel all while trying to find where exactly he's staring.

Oh, of course. It's at a girl. Some pretty little blonde girl with knee high boots and freckles. She's sitting across the way with an equally gangly looking black haired boy. Too much mousse. Not enough manhood to pass for sauvé, but still, it's a nice touch.

"It looks like your  _friend_  isn't here for you," Ronda says bluntly to him.

The kid, with mousy-brown hair, chocolate brown eyes, and black framed classes doesn't seem upset by this in the least. "Oh, she knows I'm here all right." A slight smirk settles to the corner of his mouth. "It's why she won't order anything. That requires looking at me."

"Isn't that slightly stalkerish?" Ronda asks, re-filling the only item at his table: a free glass of water.

"Don't you have other tables to be serving?" He sasses back. She watches him carefully fiddle with a blue Jansports bagpack beside him.

Ronda sighs, giving up. It's been a boring shift, and she swears that if she doesn't hear from Beth soon, she's gonna start tearing New York City down, brick by brick.

* * *

When Beth holds up a shirt with a flat circular shield on it, Steve can't help screwing up his eyes. He doesn't believe that _his_  shield has been so senselessly mass-marketed. Sure, he felt okay with cheap paper back Baseball cards—but there is a wall to wall, nine foot high rack of  _Avengers_  decorated shirts.

"Too…patriotic?" Beth jests, fingers around the hanger as she holds it out for him.

 _It's not even in the correct position for throwing_ , Steve thinks.

"I was hoping for something a little less…flashy?"

Beth looks at the shirt. It's a dark grey, hinted with the spiral of red, white and blue in the circle of Captain America's shield. She can only hear Ronda making fun of her, two blocks down from  _Salto Della_ , but she isn't doing it for her secret Captain fueled kicks. In all honesty, she's hoping to use it as a prop to begin her final question of the day:

Where was Steve during the Battle of New York?

She remembers his friend Natasha mentioned that he was recalled from station for the Battle. Did that mean he was there during it? Did that event also trigger his…attacks?

She puts it down, unable to make process into asking. She tries to make him smile again, and plucks another shirt from the street vendor's rather impressive wired wall-cart. It's an image of a cat photoshopped into a classy outfit. Above the white fur it reads:  _The Great Catsby_.

Steve leans in to examine it further. "Is that a cat with sunglasses on?"

"Yeah—it's a play on words. There's a movie coming out soon. A remake of the 70's  _The Great Gatsby._ "

"Gatsby?" The name feels familiar yet alien inside of his mouth. "Is that a kinda car? Or…radio programme? I've heard that name."

Beth tries not to laugh at the tug to his expression. It's almost like he was thinking about its publishing date, which was a long,  _long_ time ago.

"It was a book. I think it was released during the Jazz Age—20's, I think? Anyway, this is the joke of it. You know, the internet loves cats—so cat, the alliteration of the word 'classy', it relating to Gatsby—thusly:  _The Great Catsby."_

Steve doesn't even bother to follow the logic, although he does remember that book extremely well. 1925. He even got a copy signed for his old man. He didn't care much for the long-winded jingoism or the superfluous language of the book, but it still was a better read than  _The Postman Always Rings Twice_  until  _The Hobbit_  came along. "The book was great. But I think not so much for the shirt."

Beth grapples for shirts that are not littered in pinks, or neon greens, or more pop culture. Soon, she comes across a sweater—it isn't of the best quality, but it has a homemade feel about its look. The collar is a mix of a dark blue— the only thing printed on it is a sewed outline of a fir tree—the traditional Christmas tree. It's so faint that it's barely notable along the side of the fabric. She holds it out to the soldier.

"Have you ever had an obnoxious Christmas sweater? Because I'm about to underwhelm your expectations."

Steve smiles, shifting where he stands because he's been ignoring that chill of the wind for so long that talking about it doesn't seem fair. "Ah, the ever present tradition of a terrible Christmas sweater. Bucky gave me a ton of his own that his own mother had made for him. She was a saint. God bless her soul. He couldn't stand reindeer much, though."

He takes it carefully beneath his fingertips, running up the seams and checking it for holes. Beth tries not to stare too carefully at what he's doing, but she's going to pop if she doesn't ask a question soon.

"Not even Rudolph?"

Steve couldn't help but grin. Presently, he's heard the song on the radio over one hundred times now. He enjoys every rendition of it because it only makes him picture Bucky's face in playful anguish over how much he couldn't  _stand_  the children's story book, and his mother's itchy sweaters.

"He could be a bit of a humbug around the holiday, but he loved his mom, I swear." Steve decides the sweater is worth it, just for the sake of having something that Beth had touched in comfort, and not in distress. "Have you heard the song? It's pretty catchy."

Beth laughs, soft and low, and Steve feels his heart tremble ever so slightly.

At the vendor's check out, a hand shuffles around in the back pocket of Steve's jeans. His wallet isn't there.

Then he wants to smack his hand to his forehead. Of course. He left it at Tony's. He'd left everything at Tony's, including his dignity. Sheepishly, and with more swallowed pride than not, Steve watches as Beth pays for yet another item of his. He wishes he had those earrings he'd purchased for her before, when he had enough common sense to rub together between his thumb and forefinger.

"Thanks," He says blushingly. There is a frosty colour to his cheeks that looks more blue than red. Beth simply smiles, and pushes the sweater against his chest.

"Don't thank me yet! Hurry and go change—before someone else sees you!"

Once he's changed and warm, Steve finds himself in a good mood, strolling along with Beth. He takes a step only to find Beth isn't matching his pace.

"I can't do this," Beth whispers.

She stops midstride as crowd of passing holiday shoppers glare at them. They're nearly a block closer to the café, and Steve frowns at Beth's sudden change in mood. She seemed fine nearly a block ago. They're just along the side of a giant building called  _The Daily Bugle—_ apparently some new, (well, new to him) newspaper palace _._  Steve's never read the newspaper himself, but he's seen Tony flip through it once or twice and grin. Then he'd call to Pepper and yell out that the paper had found photos of their unborn lovechild in a dump, or even worse tabloids. Thinking on it now, it didn't seem particularly kind to superheroes.

"What's wrong?"

"Ronda." She pauses, her lips in a pale, thin line. "I feel sick. She's going to be so upset."

He looks at her, right at her, trying to keep her eyes supported up so that she can see that it isn't so bad. He thinks quickly for a moment, squeezing her hand—and suddenly the pet name is out before he has time to take it back.

"Doll, she cares a lot about you," He keeps talking, cringing that he's honestly just called her  _'doll'_ , and wishing that Bucky was around so he could cuff him  _so hard_  across the back of the neck for letting such a  _stupid_  pet name get lodged in his brain from him being so dame-dizzy. "Her being upset only shows that. It won't last forever. And this is my fault. I want the best of the punches." He smiles faintly.

It seems to do the trick. Beth seems to straighten up—but not before suddenly hugging Steve, both her hands just above his waist. Steve's stunned for a moment, but his hands are around her body, holding her close and—

Then a force hits them so hard, Steve has to dig in his heels to keep Beth from spiraling into the dark, frozen concrete—he falls instead, glad that he's taking the force from the hard ground below. Steve hears a voice before he sees the person who has practically ran right into them. It's a kid—cowlicked hair, glasses askew, and large, oblong camera on a thick black cord about his neck threatening to clatter in the rush.

"I'm sorry! I'm  _so_  sorry!" The freshfaced stare of the glasses framed kid calls, halfway out the revolving door of  _The Daily Bugle._  He rushes back; kicking off of his skateboard before helping Steve up with a grip that packs a lot more strength than Steve would've ever guessed the kid had.

"Are you alright?" Once Steve's up, he twists, he's checking over Beth in a very kind manner, examining her arms for bruises. "Ya alright? Everyone okay? Jeez, I am so sorry."

Buffeted, but just reassured that Beth is fine, Steve can't bring himself to be too mad. The teenager looks frayed enough. He has dark circles under his eyes—something that looks like a torn Mickey Mouse band aid over a nasty cut on his left cheek—the right side of poor Mickey's ear is missing. He's a little scrappy, but Steve finds himself wanting to smile. He reminds Steve of another dumb kid who got into too many fights and never bothered to clean himself up well.

"I think so," Steve says, carefully gaining a nod from Beth before continuing. "Are  _you_  all right, son?"

The kid's dark brown eyes look amused by Steve's question. The gangly arms of the kid's body motions for an awkward handshake from Steve before patting at his own chest. "Who, me? Yeah. Oh—Oh yeah, sure, of course." He trains his eyes up—far,  _far_  up, like he's preparing to ascend into a place of consequence. "I was just late for work—I uh, deliver pictures to the  _Daily Bugle._  Part time deal. But it's risky, because Jameson—er, my boss, he gets, um, a little ticked if I'm not on perfect time."

"Oh," Beth states, alarmed and equally feeling bad for the highschooler. "Well, you better get up there then."

"Right, yeah." The kid finds himself staring at Beth for just a second longer than Steve thinks is necessary. "Well, I'm sorry again. I'm an idiot—seriously, I really am." He rambles as touches the bridge of his nose faintly, pushing up his glasses. "Please have a good day—don't mind me running a perfectly nice moment. I—I owe you guys' a photo opp!"

He's inside the building so fast that the glass doors spin around twice before Steve gets a chance to even ask the kid for his name.

They don't hold hands again. Steve is acutely aware of this, although each time he and Beth manage to brush against each other as they round through the Christmas shopping footfall of the city. When contact hits, Beth's eyes hold only a tight vein of concern over how Steve's managing to lope around without passing out. And, if he's entirely honest with himself, Steve is wondering about that as well. Occasionally he takes a poke at his side, winces, and counts off a pain scale in his head. It's no longer impossibly dividing by zero, but has settled nicely in the positive number range. Sometimes a 60 out of 100, and rarely a 78, if he nearly slips out a frosty patch of upswept ice from the giant hoover-trucks growling up and down the avenues.

Finally, the doors of the café are upon them.

"I suppose today is a nice day to die," Beth comments-a-matter-of-factly. Steve tries not to chuckle nervously.

She leaves Steve to find Ronda herself, and when she does, it's a flurry of halfway knocked over trays and plastic cups that are rolling along the hard floor. Some of the customers start clapping sardonically.

"Ronda, thank you so much for covering for me," Beth speaks first, because if she doesn't speak first, she has a feeling she won't get a chance to speak at all.

"Well, it isn't the first time, and I could use the cash. But, really, I'm just glad you're not dead."

The strong grip of her fingers are laced around the thin cloth of Beth's jacket, pulling her away from Steve. "And I hope you don't mind me putting some more distance between you and Steve-o over there." Ronda mutters. She's pulling Beth into the break room, and before the blonde knows it, Ronda looks like she's about to cry in panic. She gives Beth a paralyzing once over, nearly nose to nose, both of her fists tight on the balls of her shoulder blades. "Just let me look at you."

Beth lets her. They both stand there until Ronda's dark eyes look like they are going to explode.

"All last night Beth,  _all_  fucking last night I kept thinking about kicking down your door regardless of what you wanted. It was hard. It was  _so_  hard. I couldn't stop thinking about how fucked up it all was." She pauses, her voice low. "I know you couldn't have possibly slept with him, so I'm only going to ask this once: did he try to pull anything on you?"

"He cried," Beth says instantly. Ronda's expression splinters into bewilderment. "He was just as embarrassed as you were."

Ronda blinks. She ducks her head out of the panel of the side door, getting the slightest of views of the well-built soldier, standing politely off to the side, hands deep in his pockets like he's just there ordering a latte, and was an entire stranger to the bloody mess she had to handle in the snow.

"He looks…okay now," Ronda observes. She slowly turns to Beth, her eyes blank in confusion. "That…isn't right."

All defensiveness in Beth's face drops effortlessly, forcing herself to let go of fearing the worst from Ronda. "Oh thank  _God_  you see it too!"

"Do extremely sports obsessed guys just do that? Heal crazy?"

Beth shakes her head, blonde tendrils flaring. "I have no idea how he's made it this far. He doesn't even complain." She follows Ronda's stare. "But I know it hurts him."

"Personally, I hope it does," Ronda adds darkly. She places a palm along Beth's neck, forcing the blonde back. "And how are you holding up?"

Beth doesn't know why, but she wants to smile. "The past few days have been like something out of a terrible Nicholas Sparks novel."

"God, I hate Sparks. You saw what he said about writing any kind of gay romance in his books, right? What an asshole."

Beth watches her best friend endearingly struggle to make things normal again through her usual complaints. "I don't know what's happening, Ronda. But I don't know if I want it to stop, either. But I figured out by now that he's not planning some Dooms Day for us."

"Just don't be stupid. If you see him acting weird, call him out on it—" Suddenly Ronda gasps, her eyes bright. "Did you see his injury yet?"

Beth's face feels like its burning red. "Yeah…I've been trying to find a way to ask, but it's…it's hard. He…he sometimes…you'll see. He talks...in this really unusual way."

"What? What does that mean? Like an accent?"

"Well, no. But. Kinda. It's just. I get this feeling that asking to see under his clothing would be…impolite."

Ronda stare is pinning her to the back wall. "You're not serious. You have to see it."

Beth wants to laugh. She already considered how delicately that would go down. "How?"

"Trick him? He has this whole big handsome farmboy routine going on—it can't be that hard."

"You haven't even heard him speak once!"

"He just  _looks_  so unassuming. It's weird."

Beth sighs hard, halting the conversation. "I can't just trick him. I ask him, or I don't. I just don't think I should right now."

"It's gotta be driving you crazy." Ronda deadpans in her starchy niche for digging deep into her best friend's woes.

"A tiny bit, maybe." Beth smirks.

"Find out."

"Okay, okay."

"I mean it," Ronda emphasizes seriously. She glances at the door, as if she could somehow watch Steve through it. "He shouldn't be here right now—he should be at home, or a hospital, or someone else should be taking care of him—not us, Beth. Not. Us."

"I think you mean  _me,_ " Beth fights back, her lips pursing tightly.

Ronda studies her and sighs, allowing the topic to drop. "You know we have tickets tonight, don't you? Other things to worry about—other than, you know, your crazy-ass first date stalker guy who tried to molest you in the middle of central park."

Beth's eyes narrow, caught entirely off guard. "What do you mean?"

"I have tickets for Broadway tonight."

"Tickets?" Beth forces the word out, tightly. "You know how much I'm already in debt due to your spontaneous expensive as hell shows? I can't afford that!"

 _"I_  bought them," Ronda says, stretching out the 'I' for poignancy. "You don't have to worry."

Beth is silent for a minute as she studies her friend. "When did you buy them?"

"About a week ago. It was going to be a surprise. But I guess now is a good of a time as ever. Surprise?" Ronda declares halfheartedly. "And they're non-refundable at this point."

"I can't just…leave him like this though," Beth counters.

Ronda considers this, her eyes leering back out the door's frame. Suddenly Beth watches her spine straighten up considerably.

"I don't think you have to," Ronda explains, her eyes wide. "There's someone with him now. That tall muscly guy we met with…was Natasha her name? Anyway…he's with him now."

The colour drains from Beth's face. The last time that man had seen her, she was still covered in blood and near tears in her own home. "You think we should go say hello?"

"I can only imagine that we don't have much choice—besides, maybe getting to know his friend will make Steve a little less—urhm. Out of place?"

Beth's quiet and Ronda starts to lead them back out the door. "If his friend is here, maybe he could convince Steve to go to the hospital."

Ronda turns to look at her, her scowl mixed with a hint of worry. "Yeah. Maybe—it also means that you have no excuse to not come with me tonight. And I think that'll be good for you. Since your…your, um." She stops, able to put it into accurate words.

"Fine. But if I'm going to say goodbye to him, you  _have_  to meet him." Beth finishes hurriedly for her, moving straight ahead. It's the first time Beth's taking the lead in front of Ronda, and for a second, Ronda feels herself lagging behind, unable to keep up.

When they reach the table, Steve rises instantly, his face flustered. Across from him is that familiar stormy eyed gaze that seemed to help guide Beth through that terrifying night. She remembers the white snow burning her down, and then she was covered—by his jacket, Ronda later informed her. He was a unique looking man, with his golden, shortly trimmed beard along his cheeks and throat. He was wearing a green sweater that read  _Starsmucker_  in thin silver cursive, and a red scarf that hung loosely along his shoulders, as if he forgot about tying it properly. The wide frame of his shoulders and height was almost hulking—but there was something unmistakably graceful about him. Especially when he smiles—and he did. First at Ronda's scowl, and then at Beth's surprised lopsided smile.

"Beth—" Steve begins, but his eyes hold to Ronda's piercing stare, and he fights to not sit right back down his chair. "Ronda." He holds out his hand for a handshake, and, carefully, Ronda extends her hand and shakes his with closed suspicion "It's nice to meet you—er. Again. I—"

Suddenly, it is Thor that breaks in, grasping Steve's shoulder and pulling him away without a word. Ronda's brows furrow, but Beth manages to keep her in check.

"Ah—ow— _easy_ —Ladies, if you'll please excuse us, we'll be right back!"

Ronda turns quickly, her eyes to Beth for a split second before she hides her expression of amusement. "I think I just scared them away." She holds in her breath, sliding down into the now empty chair, forcing back her laughter that would give her cold image away. "What do you think they're doing?

Beth glances at the distance they've traveled, sitting at a table where she can see the larger, muscled man motioning to Steve in great exaggeration, and she tries not to let that pit in her stomach open. "I guess they just need time to sort out the medical details?"

"I guess," Ronda sighs, blowing her white bangs out of her eyes. "It looks like we may be here for a while. You want a drink? I'm getting a drink."

"Yes," Beth says, letting her exasperation show, " _Please_ and thank you."

* * *

"It is remarkable that this young maiden has not adroitly departed ways from your nature, Captain."

Steve tries not to mull over how Thor's sitting with him, right now, in a public café and yet the public around them couldn't care less. The God of Thunder shifts carefully, although the static from his skin causes the thin metal handles on the spoons to slide ever so needily towards him. He probably would have to check Thor for the unconscious petty larceny of silverware before they left.

"Captain Rogers?" Thor breaks in again, his lips a firm line.

Steve looks at him hard. "What do you mean about my 'nature'?"

"I meant it in the sense that we are compelled to a calling of violence and justice, and yet this child insists that she be your protector."

"Protector?"

"She watched over you throughout the evening, did she not?"

Steve finds himself digging his fingertips into the cloth of the table, too giving to quell the flash of anger he feels. "I didn't  _ask_ you to leave me with her. Natasha took things too far. I—"

"You were wounded and yet you traveled to her." Thor says slowly, his voice grave. "Do not place blame where there is no pedestal to hold it."

Steve forces a deep breath through his nose, but it does nothing to ward off his anxiety.

"Thor," Steve finds himself leaning in close, his throat tight in confession. "I don't know what to do now."

The soldier's eyes drift to catch a glimpse of Beth and Ronda from a few tables down. Beth is one that is talking, her hands moving back and forth. Ronda seems unimpressed, but suddenly it cracks like a geyser and they're both laughing, holding tight to one anothers' wrists.

Thor's classic grin strikes hotly across his face. "Captain Rogers, it is most simple."

Steve stares at him skeptically, their laughter loud in his ears despite the distance. If they knew who he was, they wouldn't be laughing. If they knew what Thor was, they wouldn't be smiling. He feels on the edge of balancing that. Pedestrian life was so wonderfully organized. He didn't want to expose anyone else. Their first date was so entirely normal. He just wants to protect her now. She couldn't be brought into the mess of his life. He was being so selfish before. What was he thinking? She has worn his blood. She has seen him break down. She has seen him run away. What more could he possibly risk her seeing before it was…too much?

He didn't want to be alone again.

Never again.

"Simple." Steve's brows narrow sharply.  _"Simple?"_

"You may not admit without affront, but I believe there is salvage to your grievances." Thor's golden hair was pulled up sharply into a knot under the back of his black cap. "We shall meet her. It would be most kindly to open the door that you have so carefully locked. You stand her at the foot of a universe that she has seen through a keyhole." His mind's eyes can so purely recollect the stains of blood across Beth's cheeks, her blank stare across Steve's body in the snow. "I do believe that it is time another civilian is allowed into our lives. I have already informed Jane through the telling of phones, and it would seem that she is most happy to meet your lady."

"My lady—?!" Steve says loudly. His tongue is too thick for his own mouth. He shutters his voice to a murmur, ducking down again. "Thor—now Miss Foster— _no!"_

Thor's smile seems unabashedly confident. "Of course that is not this day. Today I shall meet her."

Steve's sweat drips warmly down the back of his neck, inching like mad. "You don't understand, Thor."

Uncharacteristically, Thor's stormy grey eyes make a rapid movement as they disappear for a second behind his upper lids—almost like weary attempt at a human eye roll. Steve blanches, slightly amused by Thor's sudden all-to-human gesture of an practically immortal being that is completely exasperated by the woes of a mortal.

"Did you just roll your eyes at me?" Steve asks, a slight smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

Thor's startlingly white teeth shine down once more into a coy smirk—yet another secretive movement that seems polarizing from the grand, open gestures that Thor always carries like a torch of honesty. "It would appear that Miss Potts is a most doting teacher on the manners that humans express themselves during verbalized conflict."

Steve laughs, almost feeling the formation of tears dotting his vision. "Ain't that the truth."

Thor's thick brows rise, and Steve swears he can hear the ceiling fan about them protest its inner motor to cycle in a new direction. "You are cheerful! Wonderful! It is set into agreement!"

Steve's grin falters. "Thor…I—that's not gonna work. How…how would the rest of the gang feel? Director Fury?" For a moment Steve tries to picture it all working out. Beth could be with him—and she could know  _everything_. He could show her pictures of his parents. Black and whites of Bucky. He could show her New York City in a whole new light—dusty and unfiltered, but completely alive in his memory. She could sit in the island in the kitchen and compare baseball league stats with Clint, scheming with Natasha and Pepper. But he hits along the dark eyes of Tony, and it all ends. "It's…it's too much."

"You speak sense that is nonexistent. Since you've been gone the rest of the warriors and myself have had words. It is clear for two things: You must come back to Stark's tower tonight, and this Ore maiden is of considered speculation for being your companion."

"Companion," Steve says bitterly, his voice low. He looks at Beth, at her smiling, and he feels as if this is the proper distance he should have always had with her. He could have just came to the café every once in a while and watched her, and that  _should have been enough._ "She's a person, Thor. She has a life. She has dreams. She has—"

"A condition." Thor cuts in quietly.

Steve pales. He looks away from Beth and at his hands. He forces the words out, sharp and painful. "Because of  _us._ "

"No," Thor's power over the word makes the hairs on Steve's arms rise. "She was  _saved_  because of us. My brother would have killed everything in this city. Everything. Including her. And you have saved her."

"She can't know that!" Steve snaps startlingly. "She can't  _ever_ know that!

"Why?" Thor questions stubbornly.

The soldier swallows, unable to find relief. He turns towards the window and watches the light fall of snowflakes dance through the bustle of jaded taxi drivers. "What good does that do her now?"

The God of Thunder tilts his head carefully in consideration, and follows Rogers' gaze outside the window.

"You know, I met her before even saving her." Steve's fingers lift up slowly, and tap at the glass, seeing far deep into the city, into its grimy, bitter parts where there were no old men playing chess, and no pigeons dared to stray. "Right there. Not long before the invasion. There were angels—literally, around us when it happened." He points at the broken malformed gargoyles that were the guardians of the clock in Grand Central Station, but he is the only soul that can see them. "I know you might not know what those are, but…" Steve swallows. "They're broken now."

"On Asgard, we would be also build mighty statues to aid us. So tell me. These angels, when their stone castings break," Thor rumbles curiously. "Do they perish?"

Steve looks at Thor, stunned by the question. It takes a long time for him to gather the words.

"I think everything does," Steve pauses, closes his eyes, and he can see Peggy's dark stern stare ordering him to stop. Stop the plane. Stop the bombs. Stop the war. Stop dying. Stop.  _Stop._  "With time."

The grey in Thor's eyes twist like a nether. "Then you should understand more than any man ever should that time is not to be wasted."

Steve sighs, folding inwardly. He's made it all so blotched that he doesn't know where to begin with continuing the charade of hiding Beth. He wants her to himself, but the weight of his team is on him. The weight of Doctor Banner's words is on him. "I can't do this."

"You do not have to alone any longer, Captain." Thor says with prowess. "Your friends wish to help you. It is true that there are concerns, but for now, I do wish to meet Beth once more." He pauses, a slight dashed flatness to his rich tone. "In a manner that is now not so…dire."

Steve tries not to cling so tightly to the idea of his friends  _wanting_ this…whatever this was, for him. "Tony doesn't."

Thor leans back in his wicker chair, shoulders flexed in disconcert. "The man of Iron is of a state of mind that grows more vapid by the hour. If you are concerned, it is most welcoming if you were to come home by the end of this encounter, so that Doctor Banner may look at your wound. That would be what Stark wishes. But I have come to explain to you so that you shall have the peace of mind in knowing that Beth is going to meet Jane, the Agent, again—Miss Potts seems rather impressed at the idea."

Steve leans on his hand, debating. "It's too fast. She could be overwhelmed. We can't just tell her we're all super heroes without blinking an eye."

"We are not going to tell her a word about what it is what we do. It is merely a matter of consideration for the trauma that you have put her through thus far."

Steve's listening, but Doctor Banner's cold, dark, and shatteringly sad stare is eating at him through the crowds of people, as if he is there, sitting beside him, a tight hand on Steve's shoulder, holding him back. "Banner told me that this would all end in tears. If I hid. If we did just what everyone is suggesting."

Thor leans forward once more, adjusting in his chair. The refection of his own whiskers are tangled in the dark wood beneath them like a cowl. "Gentle Banner is correct in almost all of his predictions, from what I have adhered. However, a part of mine own mind wonders if he is using that raging beast inside of him for an battle that is yet to be won by Banner himself. Doth he truly tarry over meeting the fair girl?"

Steve wishes, just once, for a Shakespearian English to English dictionary to just plop down in his lap. He never was any good with stage plays. He takes his best guess at what Thor needs to hear. "He said he could never meet her."

Thor's eyes hold to Steve's wearily, almost as if he had been given that same speech as well, and hearing it out of Steve's own mouth finally left an imprint. "This new saddens me. You humans are obsessed with the tragic flaws in your character as if that is all one ever shall be, even when there are others who respect you for it."

Steve barely manages to look at Thor. "Everyone's gotta have a beef about somethin', I suppose." He switches the subject back to Bruce. "I just don't want Banner feelin' like I'm chasing him out of his— _Tony's_  home. By bringing Beth around." Steve then stops, immediately remembering Tony's home. His wealthy, multibillion dollar Tower-shaped mansion smack dab in the middle of Manhattan's upper highlife. "Lord, this is never going to work. Beth can't meet Tony. He's a glitterati if I ever knew one."

Thor's jaw twitches itself in vainly withheld bemusement. "The man of Iron's suits are not glittery in the slightest."

"No, no," Steve asides, trying not to let Thor's expression get the better of him, and make him smile again. This was serious. "Glitter _ati_. It, uh, used to mean…movie star. Popular. Ahum—Legendary."

"Ah," Thor rumbles in understanding. "I can sense that Stark has a perverse sway over maidens and ladies alike. And Beth is very fair."

Steve steels, his patience cut short. Suddenly he's looking Thor fully in the eye. "Wait—are you implying that Tony could—what,  _steal_  Beth away from me?"

Thor presses his back into the chair, unprepared for Rogers' reaction. "I understand envy, as humans do. That is all I was agreeing towards. And you are also correct in that Beth's humble life is worlds away from Stark's, even from a monetary standpoint, let alone invanderous intentions."

Steve lets his head drop into his open palms. "This is a royal mess I've made."

Thor's smile settles subtly, almost calming to anyone that wasn't a super soldier, boxed in on bringing his newly wrecked infatuation with a distressed waitress to his equally cunning friends.

"Indeed. When can a date be set for Jane?"

Steve sighs out, completely defeated and dog-tired and his side's beginning to ache noticeably with Beth not around to take his mind off of it. "How about I ask Beth that. But I can only imagine she'll be interested." He rubs at the back of his neck, trying to ease the tension out. "How about the day after tomorrow?"

* * *

**AN:**  PETER PARKER CAMEOS. PETER PARKER CAMEOS. ALL THE PETER PARKER CAMEOS. My entire LIFE needs to be full of Peter Parker cameos. Seriously. Please.

Also J. Jonah Jameson.

Everyone, do me a favour. Go to Youtubes, and type into the search bar "J Jonah Jameson!" There. See. I even typed it out for you. Just copy and paste, and you'll be presented with 1:34 seconds of pure bliss. I suppose it's only fair in in this Marvel universe centered novel I give a nod to Spidey himself (ALTHOUGH HE HAD TO GO AND MUCK UP A PERFECTLY ADORALE MOMENT BETWEEN CAP AND BETH. THANKS, BRO.). But J.J.J stole my freakin' heart. I adore J.K. Simmon's performance in the 2001's  _Spider-Man_  movies, but I do believe that it is in the 2008's cartoon "Spectacular Spider-Man" that the character of Jameson shines. Well, really, all of the characters (including a wonderful romance between Gwen Stacy and Peter ((YES I KNOW HOW IT ENDS OKAY, DON'T GO TROLLING MYLIFE)) . If anyone really enjoys Spider-Man, lovely animation and clever writing, _Spectacular Spider-Man_  is the way to go. I bought the first season like a boss and then illegally found a pirated disk of the second. It was sadly canceled in replace of a god awful Spider-Man cartoon *cough*  _ultimate spider-man_  *cough* that makes my soul bleed when I attempted to watch it.

It really hurts me, as I really love the  _Ultimate's_ universe comics, including X-Men, Spidey, and Avengers. But they just banged up that show so hard. To anyone that has watched it and thought it was terrible, I apologize. The  _Ultimate Spider-Man_  comic book is  _NOTHING_  like that. And it's BEAUTIFULLY drawn.

tl;dr: Go watch  _Spectacular Spider-Man_  RIGHT NOW.

Okay. Kay-rant done. Over and out.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so very much to Sylvia again for showing me how to work this thing. c:

The silence around the oval shape of the table is unmoving. Ronda flickers her eyes between Thor and Steve, nonplussed.

Thor, unabashedly, speaks first. "It would appear that we have reached an impasse that is most awkward?"

Ronda contemplates the interesting speckles of grey in the God of Thunder's eyes. "I'm sorry," she remarks suddenly. "I don't mean to be rude, but what exactly do you expect me to say?"

The demi-god shifts, grazed by her bluntness that could rival his own. "Perhaps a re-establishment is in order."

She squints her eyes. "You're…Doland, yeah?"

Thor's expression falls, obviously displeased by his human identity's lack of mutual continuity. Apparently the first name of 'Donald' was not as common as it once was for some reason. Earth social-standards are fast paced and confusing.

"Donald Blake," he corrects with a generous smile.

"Uh-huh," Ronda says. "And where are you from?"

Even Beth perks up at this. "You do speak…"

The blonde suddenly realises that she's looking at Steve by default as she speaks, and she quickly fixes herself to Donald. "Formally. Were you raised across the pond?"

"You do sound a little…British?" A quick glance at Beth, but the blonde's face shows that this can't be. "No, there's no way. Maybe somewhere more North? Sweden?"

Steve cuts in efficiently, instructed in the many ways of regulation from S.H.I.E.L.D. towards sparing Thor an old fashioned flatfoot interrogation. "He's visiting from Norway."

"Wow," Ronda and Beth equally exchange a look of surprise. "And uh, Natasha, right? She said you two were sparring partners?"

"Only occasionally, but yes, he and I do, uh, compete." Steve tries not to rush to cover for Thor, praying the Asgardian has enough facetiousness to keep up.

Instantly, the soldier is bombarded by the tinkering turmoil sitting in the eyes of the fake-blonde's glare.

"You're being awfully chatty. Feeling better?" Ronda's intense eyes are upon him.

Steve's mouth feels sealed shut, letters phonically swallowing their way back down his throat. Luckily, Thor eagerly barges his way back into the conversation.

"Steve and I have been actively discussing the woes of his wound away from you both." There's a distinct pause in which Steve can tell how hard Thor is working to speak with modern, English contractions. "Steve was worried that it would've upset you ladies further."

A tight compact sound of folding leather drags as Ronda's fingers clench over her menu. "Believe me, I  _highly_  doubt that's possible." Her eyes to Steve again. "It shouldn't be an epic debate! Are you afraid of hospitals, or something?"

Steve tries not to flush at Ronda's accusation. For a moment, he has to pull himself back, refresh himself on whom exactly he's speaking with. He doesn't like the way she's still snapping at him. It's reminding him so much of Stark, it's obscene. Her dark stare, the flare for control and ego. Steve can already feel the projection of dislike forming in his gut like a sharpened knife.

"Natasha did a great job—there's no need for—" he pauses, unsure of how to defend himself further. It was hard enough to convince Beth, which he knows he didn't do a fair enough job of. Ronda is relentless.

He sighs. "Look—"

"Wait," Ronda flexes her arm out, palm up in a universal sight to halt, almost like an order. "Is this about the money?" Without taking her eyes off of Steve, she pulls through her pocketbook, buttons clattering to the wooden, muddy, snow-printed floor beneath them as she goes along. She's spilling greenbacks from a silver wallet. "I'll cover as much as—"

Taken-off guard, Steve has trouble getting the words out. "No, there's no need for that."

The evanescent fluctuation between neutral and anger in her green eyes pulses. "I know you missed this part of the movie, but you  _bled_  all over my best friend. I can't not let you get examined." She thumbs at Beth sitting beside her. "Heck, I've been meaning to check this one in for nearly a year."

"Hey!" Beth batters in offense.

The sudden flash of exposed hurt in Beth's eyes only makes Steve shoot down the matter further.

"I greatly appreciate what you're trying to do, but it's all been taken care of." He forces a polite smile. "Just now, between Donald and I. Entirely done."

"But…" Ronda protests, only to be drowned out by the larger man's booming laughter that shakes the table's legs.

"It would appear that you keep your swagger in any situation."

Both girls look at Thor as if he hadn't paid Ronda a highly regarded compliment, even in Nine Realm terms.

"Did you just tell me I have swag?" Ronda's voice feels quiet for the first time, almost faintly amused.

The Thunder God's grey eyes jump to Steve's in a discreet attempt for help in translation, but he finds the Captain's expression, slightly distressed as his own, just as lost.

Beth tries to ease the bump in conversation. "I think what Ronda is trying to really do, Steve, is try to further her apology for tasing you."

Even Ronda falls uneasily inaudible at this.

"Yeah," Her lips purse deciding, unexpectedly flustered. The ruby in her nose rustles. "About…that."

An elbow prods into Ronda's side from under the table. "Okay!" She yelps, fuming at Beth. She looks at Donald, then at Steve. "I'm sorry," she mutters.

Steve hears her say this just fine but a tiny part of him wants to hear it again. He doesn't picture Stark sitting across from him, glowering, yet genuinely apologetic.

"Pardon me, what was that?"

"I'm sorry."

"Oh," Steve does his best innocent impression. He thinks of poorly mimicking the acting of Judy Garland. "Don't be. I was pretty out of it. I didn't feel a thing."

He links his eyes to Thor for a second longer.  _It's my side and pride that hurt, mostly._  His blue eyes settle to Beth, and she smiles at the recognition. She can sense what he's getting at. She knows exactly how much pain he feels.

What Ronda really wants to ask is why Steve staggered his way into Beth's life in the first place. Looking between them however, Ronda can feel a light coherence, as if even now they're connected without touching. She frowns, distressed even further.

 _He cried,_ Beth had told her. She glances over the supposed soldier. There's a strangely smart way that he's holding himself, sitting straight up, elbows off the table. His hair is matted, and the tight paleness around his jaw and eyes bring out the dark icy colour to his eyes. Ronda can read the twinge behind them, despite his best attempts. He's in pain—much more than just a physical kind. The realisation shakes her quickly, even as she tries to imagine him calm and collected,  _breaking down_ , but the two pictures conflict.

She holds back her questioning for now.

"Well, regardless, I'm just happy Beth and you are okay."

 _Not even close to 'okay',_ Beth thinks to herself.  _But I'm weirdly dealing with that well._

"Miss Beauregard? Might I inquire about what it is that you profess—work?" Thor asks.

"You're looking at it." Ronda motions to the apron tied around her waist. Her newly painted nails gleam a steady shade of sapphire as she stands to clear the chipped cups. "Waitress." The dark green of Ronda's glare follows the flow of the questioning, and she volleys back:

"How do you two know Natasha?"

"Military comrade for Captain Rogers, and I was introduced months ago to her."

"Right," Ronda recalls, a finger tapping at her chin. Her eyes shift to Beth, and Steve tries not to feel any more nervous than when two dames give each other that kinda look. He has to try for even more painfully normal conversion. His eyes catch the glint of coins at a table not far from their own.

"Do the people at least tip you well?"

"Oh, that. Well, usually. But that was just some dumb kid with a camera." Ronda smoothly swipes the greasy coins into the white eyelet pouch at her waist, mulled in with dried up ink pens and writing pads.

"Camera?" Beth's eyebrows rise in surprise.

"Yeah," Ronda sneers, rolling a coin across her knuckles before pocketing it slyly. "Parker, or something. He left a shitty tip."

Steve smiles at the discomfort playing along Ronda's jaw, and just before Ronda can think of a remark fast enough to wipe it off the soldier's face, he's  _laughing._  Beth's own snorting chimes in as well. The blonde uses the apparent inside joke to make a break from her best friend for a moment. The pair is up and at the counter, with the soldier's large hand carefully balanced over Beth's shoulder, like he's discreetly using her for support.

There's a strange pulse of bitterness that drops into Ronda's tongue. She swallows it down as she stares at the couple.

Donald hearty voice seems more cheerful as well, but there's something distracted about it, as if he is pleased but still unsure as what to be happy about. "Miss B—"

She doesn't bother to even look at Donald when she answers. "Ronda, or Ron, handsome. Take yer pick."

The God of Thunder feels sorely like he is being put in a place that he is most uncomfortable with, but continues on. "I apologise. Ronda. Considering that you have known my teammate Steven's friend for quite a while, what would you say she is…happy with Rogers?"

This catches her off guard. Slowly, she lowers herself so that she's eye level with the grey eyed model of a body builder. "What kind of a question is that to ask? Is she happy? Are you serious?  _He_  looks happy, sure, but I don't even know him! But Beth…I—" Ronda feels herself running out a words, at complete loss for how she knew Beth felt about things. She could read the blonde like the back of the Subway directional map. "But…well. She seems…"

The man leads back in his chair at ease, awaiting her conclusion. Ronda stiffens at such a patronizing look. "She doesn't even know him, still. I don't know either of you."

"I am in agreement. I was going to ask if you would like to get to know Rogers further, as well as myself, as it would appear that, like it or not, we shall be seeing more of each other."

Her lips purse in shock as she stands. "We'll be doing what now—?!"

There is a strange high pitched squeal in Ronda's ears, and slowly she zeros in on the off-put look on the Donald's face. His shoulders bare forward, bulging and solid through the thick wool of his green sweater—Ronda fingers tightened over the back of a chair, her heart thudding hard against her spine. She takes a step back, bracing herself—there's definitely a concern look overtaking him—something large and powerful inching over his skin—she wears she's not high, but the silverware is starting to drag itself towards him from  _other_ tables.

Suddenly a thunderous sneeze rips itself from Thor's throat—the fans, LED bulbs, and ceiling panels flash—the tiny blinking wisps of Christmas holly wrapped tight in lights  _shatters_  at the impact of sound—and the entire café is cast into darkness. A few customers yelp—an eerie silence floats along the café—but Ronda hasn't stopped looking at Donald. She hasn't blinked, and she hasn't backed down. But she swears, somehow in the dark, she can still see Steve's friend's eyes  _glowing_  at her.

Ronda looks up at the ceiling, and then the next wave of fresh light bathes the interior of the café again; her green eyes look almost frightened. Her fingers tighten over the pens in her fists, hidden under the cloth. She feels like she should say something now. Something weird just happened, and the way the pony-tailed man is just beaming at her, she knows that he isn't playing around. The coffee shop continues on as if nothing happened. Beth and Steve are still at the counter, two pairs of blue eyes glancing around at the sudden lapse in electricity.

She codes it into her glare, slightly terrified, slightly in awe.  _You just did that, didn't you?_

He isn't even shy about it. His deep grey eyes are studying her in chess-match regard.  _Aye._

"Is there something wrong, Ronda?"

She turns slightly and catches the tiny reflection of Beth and Steve's fingers intertwining in the window's pane, which stares out into world, suddenly so much bigger and colder and bristling down in illogic that Ronda can't control.

"I have to get back to work. You should leave." Her eyes linger over Steve, and then they turn back to Donald's question. She nods her head at the couple, her eyes tight. "And take him with you."

* * *

Steve's fingers delay themselves from parting Beth's as they should. She looks so delighted that he doesn't understand why he has to feel so downtrodden.

"Your friends want to meet me?"

"If—if you like," Steve frets. "But I get this funny idea that you do."

"Of course I do," she smiles, but slowly, it drops from her, sliding off her mouth like a prettily wiped away bit of light. "But you…don't?"

He hesitates in alarm. "I—I don't mean to—I just." He edges a hand over his own mouth, buying time. Sometimes he wishes he could be as mentally quick as a woman for once in his life.

She chews on her lip, equally at a lost. "Donald seems very friendly."

"He is—he's a great guy. A tad like a golden retriever, my gym team and I joke." A hand flickers to press at his side. His thoughts drift to Doctor Banner, and his soon to be medical talk. And Tony's talk. Because Tony never stops talking.

"Steve." Beth's eyes press him into an answer. "Are you in…some kind of trouble—er, beyond your…side-y kind?"

He sighs, unable to continue lying to her for much longer. It's eating away at him more than he knows. He can't stand most liars—and he couldn't stand for himself to become a hypocrite for much longer, either.

But he can't tell her now. Not yet. He doesn't care what Banner said—it's too difficult. There's still time. Steve will make sure there's still time.

"It's a bit more than my side right now, yeah. I have…a lot of explaining to do. Apologies to make—but the first and foremost belonged to you and Ronda. And well, Donald and I have done that so far. Hopefully not too badly." He manages a smile, and collects both of Beth's hands in his own, feeling their warmth shake the chill from his fingers. He's going to miss that. He's going to miss her, and yet he's still so happy that this isn't a real goodbye.

She leans in, her breath sweet on his face that is so very temptingly close to his lips. "Well, when you get yourself out of trouble, I'd love to hear from you. Maybe a phone call?" She bites her lip in that anxious way that Steve thinks will drive him absolutely wild. "Maybe tonight?"

He closes the gap with a kiss that he can't quite link to her lips. He settles for a kissing her close to the edge of her mouth, and he chuckles at his own slip up. They still like this, and he leans into the crook of her neck and mutters mutely: "I wasn't joking about being a terrible kisser."

She smiles and Steve can feel it press into the side of his neck like a bandage.

"I don't care in the slightest. I'm just really glad I met you again, Steve. I just hope you can take it easy until I hear from you."

He closes his eyes and wraps his arms around her, knowingly lifting her off of the wooden floors that he never imagined himself being able to do in 1939.

"I know I say really stupid thing sometimes, but I feel like I've been waiting a long time for you."

She cracks up, her head thrown back, and Steve likes the way the light catches that same silver chain around her neck. "You've  _gotta_  stop watching 80's romance movies. I'll  _pay_ you to stop watching them!"

He blinks, unsure of what the heck the 1980's has to do with anything. He doesn't care. This is wonderful.

"I really don't want to go." He finally says as they break apart.

"I'll call you, then. Sometime tonight, right?"

He swallows. He hasn't been the best with talking to gals in person, let alone over a land line. Let alone a mobile. Let alone since he's called Peggy. He pretends it doesn't make him feel slightly ill.

"I look forward to hearing from you." He feels her hand touching slightly at his own, curling along his side. "And I'll give you an update on my—uh, side."

"Please do, Soldier Steve." She smirks. "Please do."

* * *

The blond watches Beth and Ronda walk back into the café, and spies Thor standing headlong by the exit, but he doesn't bother to make a fuss about it. He suddenly doesn't feel like much for chatting. This wasn't at all how he imagined his time with Beth working out. And now he has to go back and face it all.

The distress must show on his face, as Thor is earnestly aware of Steve's clutch on his side. He really just wishes he was walking the opposite direction, with Beth's hand in his.

"Is there something abstaining you, Captain Rogers?"

Steve sighs, straightening out his fingers to sternly to push them through his hair. He forces himself to let go of his side. "Tired, or somethin'."

"And this exhaustion," he pauses quietly. "Does not pertain to your time at war?"

Steve stammers, his pulse heady at such a direct accusation. "Uh, I don't." He glances at Thor, thick with the concern in the storm of his eyes, and thinks of his friends. Of Natasha patching up his side. Of Doctor Banner's bedside manners keeping him calm. He thinks of Clint trying to keep him in the know. He has friends. He went on this journey to find Beth and to accept change, but change makes Steve feel like he's a talking wound. Saying this physically  _hurts_  him.

"Back during the war, they…they called it 'Battle Fatigue'."

The soldier lingers off, not wanting to say anything further. He doesn't want to talk about it. Shell Shock was for poor fellas that didn't have the weight of holding a shield in their hands. America's greatest Super "team" leader on the face of a rapidly spinning marble that was holding itself together by the skin of its fragile, humanity-tinged universe. The Serum should've prepared Steve for this. He didn't have Battle Fatigue. He didn't have Shell Shock. He didn't have time. He couldn't be sick—there was… _something_  the matter, sure, he'd allow himself leverage enough, like he confessed to Beth. But it wasn't anything he couldn't handle. He may have shown weakness to Beth, but, apart of him was relieved. He didn't want to break down again, but there's was something thin and papery whenever he swallowed, hollow inside of his chest that was filling up with something that didn't chill him to the bone. There's a resonating snap he feels whenever she's near. Whenever she touches him. And if confessing his…this…temporary lapse would take that away, he'd never show it again.

He tries not to remember the men in under his command that would sit and stare blankly at their cots, or the ones that would shiver if a type-writer stopped clicking suddenly, the  _ding_ of reset making their legs jump. The unnerving feeling of visiting a rehabilitation ward was anything but condemning. Most of his friends that started waking up screaming at night, carrying knifes just in case once they got back to civilian life, never really were accepted back.

He doesn't want to end up that way. Surely, he wasn't so far gone.

"And this distress. Was it curable back then?" Thor inquires carefully, his voice low. Steve's side seems to rile at the call of its creator, the stiches laced through his skin stretching open even wider. There's a bile rising in the base of his throat.

"Supposedly you just sleep it off—quiet-like, bed rest." A hand snakes along the soft fabric of the sweater, pressing down in habit. There's a chill, but he's sweating, unable to stop from futilely covering how much this conversation is stressing him out. He swallows drily and looks at Thor, his expression a solid mask of control. "And if that's as true as I was told, I've slept 70 years' worth of enough to be done with it."

He tries to ease up, present a generous smile to Thor who's taken a pretty big risk to come talk to him so frankly since his untimely departure. He forces the grin to reaches his eyes, like a quick needled injection of his constant concern for his friends meant he couldn't be in self-centered pain.

Thor's cooling stare is vindictive to Steve's shame. "It would appear that there are other methods of treatment in this brave new world we have found ourselves in, Captain. Why, the other day Jane—"

"Don't worry about it, Thor." Steve carefully twists the little golden knob of the café door open, the snowy breeze outside already gripping onto the edges of his clothing, calling for the soldier to step into the ice. His blue eyes catch a strangely ghostly reflection of himself in the panes of the accented door, and he's shocked at how much his smile looks like Stark's, something forced and biding for time.

Cut off, Thor tries again, finding Rogers' intrusive pattern most unusual. "Understood, but yet it is Miss—"

"Doesn't time heal all wounds?" Steve snaps, forcing the door open wide, and there is an order behind his blue eyes that makes the God of Thunder move quickly to exit as well. "Isn't that what's said?"

"—" Thor says something thickly, but it's gone once they're outside, boots thickly crunching into the frosty pits in the sidewalk. A crowd rushes by, voices bubbling loud and puffs of air touching the cheeks of each passerby. The men are silent, and for a moment Steve has to fight with himself to not just tell Thor to, frankly,  _get lost._

"Thor, let's just focus on getting back, alright?"

"Captain, it is most significant to tell—"

Steve's jaw locks. "Thor, I really don't—"

"Captain, silence shall not—"

"Thor, enough."

"Captain," Thor is relentless in his row, although the God can full well see the change in the Captain's mood, swinging low and dark with every step that takes him away from the young woman in the café. "I feel that I should mention that it would appear to be the same ailment that plagues—"

"I said that's  _enough,"_  Steve orders darkly, his tone blunt and cold.

Thor challenges the Captain's commanding glare, and can see the hard buildup of a shield retracting around the icy colour of Steve's eyes that reminds him of his brother's—a force that is attempting to confine a fight for control that would pay a dear price.

Steve stops, fists bawled tightly against his sides. He's practically eyeing the God to speak again. He feels almost like he's being corner by—by someone like Stark—someone that he really just wants to hit if he could find enough sense in it. A light pole nearby shines skinny and thin. He could probably snap it and nobody would even look twice at it. He just wants to feel something fall apart in his hands that isn't him.

He forces a breath in—out. Thor's eyes seem huge for some reason, like the God himself is shocked to be told no. Now Steve just feels like a jerk. Sometimes Steve feels like he's forgetting that Thor was even more alien to the world than he was himself. But it was hard when Thor always seemed too pleased, so interesting in everything, so completely confident. It was hard to imagine even Thor feeling estranged when inanimate objects literally radiated to him. But Steve supposes that it's true; the fella was only trying to keep the peace using methods perhaps unsure to his otherworldly knowledge.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to lose my cool," The soldier's voice softens. "I just… _really_  am not looking forward to going back to Stark Tower."

Thor backs down at a complete loss for how to express his theory of Stark and Rogers' woes openly. Perhaps it was not the right time, but there never seemed to be between the tensions in the Tower, warriors, Realms. Thor's tongue urges his teeth not to show in defiance. Jane had prompted more etiquette than a "scene", as he could apparently throw.

"Yes," Thor agrees but his smile does not return. "Let us return then, in higher spirits."

They walk back, side by side, but somehow Steve can feel the weight of Thor's gaze on the back of his head the entire journey home.


	24. Struggle

Quiet.

The Tower is never this quiet unless it's midnight—or half of the group is sent off on a mission.

Steve's heart drops with his every step as he realises that could be exactly what he's walking into. There's no coy footfall of Natasha muffed through the hallways. No delicate click of Clint resetting strings and tightening weights to his bow sets. There's no way to tell if Banner's still in. It was as if the guy never bothered to lay even a book down on a surface, lest it tell one of his roommates that he existed—and enjoyed Tom Clancy. Thor walks carefully through the glide of the double doors, practically clawing the thick wool of his scarf off of him to hang improperly on a coat hook. Steve doesn't have the nerve to say anything. His mouth feels numb. It's only four in the afternoon, and it's just  _too_  still.

The wrap around granite counter-top is smooth and cold as Steve runs his fingers over it. He scoots a chair out with the heel of his shoe and sits down, hands folded over the cool surface.

"I thought you said the gang was waiting for us?"

Thor looks around, as if realising for the first time how very alone they are in the giant skyscraper. "When I spake, it is entirely in earnest for you, Captain. It was consented."

Steve huffs, his shoulders squaring by instinct. "Sounds about right." He mutters.

A worried expression dampers Thor's stern look. The back of his pony-tail bounces with every quick turn of his head. "Shall I go see what keeps our friends?"

Steve's blue eyes flash around to take in the dim of the lights. All of the windows are filled with vertical blinds. There isn't any soft background music from Tony's lab. If it didn't make him feel so uncomfortable, Steve would ask Jarvis what the deal was.

But it seemed obvious with every passing second. Steve eyes Thor, and he wonders how a man so wise could seem without a clue for some things.

"I don't think they're around, Thor."

"Pray tell, why?"

Steve lowers his voice and hopes for Thor to catch on. "Because Tony wants to be a dramatic fool."

Thor's mouth twitches at the edges. The light flicker above. "His tricks will not be tolerated."

"Easy," Steve reaches out and clasps the God on the shoulder. "He probably just wants to talk alone, and can't be buggered to say it like a normal guy."

"Captain Rogers, surely Stark would not be so—"

"If you wanna go check, be my guest."

Without a backwards glance Thor disappears through the many halls. Steve steels like there's a rod in his back. A minute slides by—then another. A trickle of seconds falls from the first hand of the clock hanging above the self-cleaning oven.

A shadow falls along the sleek tiles. Steve quiets. It isn't Thor. He knows it isn't Thor. He just really wishes it was anyone else.

 **"** So, where is she?"

Steve freezes, arm slid around the back of his chair. The crisp beams from Tony's oblong chrome swing-lights shine dizzily along the counter all from a slight snap of the billionaire's fingers. There's a distinct pop when Tony twists his neck through the living room entry way.

"Still the silent treatment? After all this time? I mean, I didn't expect a big sloppy kiss or anything, but  _really_ , old man? Give. It. Up."

When Steve speaks, Tony is in shock by the complete lack of punch in it. The Soldier's gone monotone. Freakin'  _monotone._

"Why would I ever bring her here now, Stark?"

Tony's heel twists on the tile in the kitchen at the warning in Rogers' voice. Steve would never admit to it, never verbalize it by cursing him out on half crocked threats, but he's completely fucking pissed right now. Tony can hear it. This is how Steve Rogers would finally lose it—not in loud, vicious screaming. Not in cunning dexterity of a sudden five-finger death punch to the face, but in a calm, quiet question that's going to rip the situation in two. But Tony doesn't want this to end in some kind of standoff. No. Tony wants Steve to push back. From all the crap that the rest of the Avengers had been giving him about laying off of Steve—if this is apparently  _'what Steve wants'_ , the billionaire is gonna make him sweat for it.

Tony was always curious to finally get Mister Congeniality to freak out, methodically planning for the right words to say. But here it is. So completely clear. It's showing. Tony can see all of the strained, hard little cracks in the perfect soldier's personality. America's Sweetheart fucked up and fucked up bad, but he's not going down without a fight, apparently. That still, somber tone flashes like a firework between them; the warning low, subtle, but oh holy God, it's  _there._

 _Good._  All of Tony's teeth show in his grin, bleached white and Jupiter-scented in bourbon.

"Oh, I don't know. You went out into public and decided to cause more drama here than a sitcom starring Adolf Hitler." Tony jabs a finger at Steve's alarming twitch. "It was a real thing, I swear. Or is that little too soon for you, Gramps? Anyways, I only figured that you'd continue your stupidity by bringing her to my home."

"I would never do that," Steve speaks up. He turns slowly, meeting Stark eye to eye as the billionaire carefully walks around, black eyes raking their way like sparks spiting off cut steel.

"No?"

"No," Steve repeats firmly. "I'm not here to make anyone uncomfortable."

Tony's brows narrow spitefully. "Like who?"

"Like Banner, for instance."

Tony cocks a dark thin brow that slides into the dark forest of his curls and disappears like a ghostly magic trick; a trick that now holds a face that will never be surprised. "I thought you had your two-cents worth with him already. He's gone. Wants nothing to do with this. Zip.  _Nada._ "

There's hollowness along Steve's jaw as it ripples slightly open. "No, no—how can that be?! This is exactly what I didn't want to happen!"

"Just  _one_  of the things you didn't want to happen? Enlighten me, Captain."

"I just…I didn't want to chase anyone out of their home."

"Please, Bruce is modest mouse. That's  _not_  what's on his mind right now."

"Then what is this?" Steve motions to the solitary space between them. "Where is everyone?"

"I just wanted to talk to you. Alone. Just us."

Tony's jams the lean of his gait against the cold stone of the kitchen's island, letting the beaming LED lights up glide through the tangled mess of his dark hair. He's swearing some kind of overly expensive cashmere sweater that's overly tight and covers his arms down to his wrists. The shadows form fingers that clasp the billionaire's jawline, his features tight and unmoving. Steve observes the unwashed oil spills on Stark's jeans—the thin, pasty line of stitching that's unwoven itself, lingering faintly over a tear. He then remembers that Tony had those same jeans on two weeks ago, with less wear. And three days ago at dinner. And now.

"Like this?" Steve forces his shoulders from their hunch, palms out, gesturing to the glittering darkness of Tony's elaborate hoax of conference. "Ordering everyone away while you push me aside into a closed off room? Who do you think you are, Steve Jobs?"

Tony's expression is flaxen, his mouth half way open and half way laughing. Steve feels relief at the surprise in Stark. He's been saving that reference for about two months straight, careful to not let on to anyone that he had the sense to know who invented those machines that cut off civilians from one another in a flashy, artesian style.

" _You_  know who Steve Jobs is?" The charcoal shadows leap to and fro along Tony's pale disbelief.

Steve tries not to sound too arrogant. "Clint left on some late night documentary channel and it hosted one about Jobs. It was interesting, if slightly off-putting." He pauses in reflection. "The TV sure runs some queer programmes late at night."

Tony smirks. "I'd say I'm impressed, but you namedropping Jobs is about as relevant as me quoting the fate of the  _Titanic_. An innovation that ended tragically."

"Apparently vastly mourned, from what I hear."

"Well, you missed the tearful goodbyes like I missed the screaming of the lower-class drowning in the cargo holds," Tony says, his voice full of dark, humorless absurdity. "But yeah, it did suck," he adds as an afterthought when Steve's face looks all the more conflicted. For some reason, Tony feels like Steve is sensing something about the topic. He doesn't like it.

"You were jealous of him," Steve collects with a folding of his arms across his chest, the only defense he can properly manage while on complete lockdown in Tony's domain.

"Please. He invited better means of communication and personalized software.  _I_  invented being a super hero."

"Ah," Steve turns away, his voice thick with sarcasm. "Well I'm glad it isn't a touchy subject for you."

"Okay," Tony halts their flow. "We're completely off track here, and I'm not letting you 'mudsling', as you so stupidly put it, out of this."

"You're the one that never stops talking."

"Yeah—so let me do that, 'kay?" Tony's eyes dig hard into Steve, blistering like boiling obsidian in his sockets. "Do you understand that your pathetic little secret of walking out on your team completely high and very, very badly wounded nearly cost you your public identity?"

 _"Pathetic?"_  Steve spits the word angrily as if Tony said nothing but it during the entire time he spoke.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Tony snaps, his voice uncannily full of smirch. "Does my phrasing of your  _Jack-Ass_  worthy exploits make you feel uncomfortable?"

Steve swallows hard, his stomach churning. "If you'd allow me to explain myself, I—"

"Explain yourself? Oh, please do. That'll make everything much more reasonable. Like you explained to Beth Ore."

The Soldier's heart stops. His eyes widen. "How do you know—"

A chair, long and thin on its shiny metal legs, tips forward and drags itself backwards as if by the cuff of an invisible neck. The billionaire's fingers glow a ghostly white, knuckles popping in his grip.

"Did you really think I don't know what goes on around here?" His dark brows kit coldly. "I warned you about this, old man. You can't possibly be so surprised."

Steve's jaw feels raw, creaking open like a busted hinge. Maybe it was a loose, poorly aided hope that Natasha's calm reasoning to him while he was sick wasn't completely contrived. Maybe it all was a long shot that he, for one more day, could manage control without the watching eye of anyone else that didn't seem to care until now.

But it still hurt to face.

"Natasha…" Steve says slowly, his voice tight. "She said no one else knew. No one but her and Thor."

"Natasha breathes lies, eats domination, and steals power." Tony lists off bitterly. "She tried to pull that on me too—and really?" A backwards motion of a thumb taps the low-ranged humming of Tony's clockwork Tower. "You think Shakespeare over there can keep a secret for more than 15 minutes? God, you're dense. I  _told_  you this shit would happen!"

Steve's blue eyes block Tony's remark. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that I told you before that if you're just honest, none of this would have happened. Do you know the fucking hoops we've had to jump through to keep Fury's big pirate-patched face out of this bullshit? I always find out. I  _always_  know."

"You know Stark, for someone who hates S.H.I.E.L.D. so much you're starting to sound an awful like like 'em."

"Hoh, figure that out all by yer lonesome _, Blue's Clues_?"

"What?" Steve's expression starts to wan—Tony's insults are all the more away from Steve's limited pop-culture knowledge and its starting to add up to cheap shots and low blows. If Tony wants to talk to him, Steve just wishes he'd be straight forward and not put on such a show.

Tony practically hisses his rebuttal: "Never mind. Just. Here."

The jet-black sheered over cashmere of Tony's sweater causes the harsh lighting above to dance around the stitches like a Filmo Motion Picture projection—still images of Steve's childhood come to mind in flipped projected photographs, grainy and flickering—a cat walking, a cub learning to stalk—a tiger chancing its prey—a pantherous sway along the tight muscles of Stark's shoulders as he paces the outer edge of the island—a drawer rattles open and is just as quickly smashed shut. A silver file is suddenly gliding airily over the smooth surface of the bar, arriving just at Steve's fingertips.

"You waiting for the next 70 years, Cap? Open it."

Holding his breath, Steve pulls back the cover. He's held too many files this way. Too many relationships that succumbed to black and whites and typeo'd goodbyes in the form of death certificates. For a heartbreaking second, he thinks Stark's handed him just that—with Peggy's name elegantly signed along the dotted line. But what he reads next practically knocks the air out of him.

Beth's name—her date of birth, her hometown, her parents, her brother, her education records, her middle name, it just goes on. Her whole life history. It flashes before his eyes, right there in front of him. Before Steve even realises what he's doing—the papers in his hands are twisted instantly—white hardy pieces of lettering, tiny perfectly spaced letters, mixing and matching like a terrible game of Scrabble—poured across the clean table. Steve's vision swirls at the overload of Beth's life story in his hands—perhaps a history that she didn't want him to know—or worse—would never be a gifted surprise to him, because he's seen it all—her middle name. Her  _middle name_  of all things.

Steve's palms press themselves flat against the table. He tries to hold himself steady, but the letters continue to waver, sorting themselves out into names from his past, dirty jokes that only Bucky could pull off, lies that he's told—lies that he's trying to thrive in Beth. Words like  _taser, train, Good man, Zola_ —he blinks but the words won't go away.

Tony makes a tsking noise from his throat.

"And to think you honestly thought this was a good fucking idea. The only part of this that would ever work out is that your sorry-ass was saved for you to continue to be a nobody out of suit—because apparently everyone just  _lusts_  after that sentiment." He pauses cynically. "But wait. There _is_  a problem. Beth won't know Natasha or Clint or maybe even Thor. Except, of course, she'll know that I'm Tony Stark. And well, that just can't be helped, can it?"

Tony pauses, his tongue lashing Steve like a reputed whip.

"But even then, Steve, buddy, you have the greatest slice of this deal here. Because you're still a nobody. And she seems like the kind of girl that would want a nobody."

A nobody. Steve's temples throb. A nobody. His knees feel weak. A nobody. He recalls faintly the sound of rushing water, flooding through his mind, pelting his body. A mantra of nothing. Screaming over nothing. Waking in fear over nothing. Nothing. He fights the thoughts back. Captain America isn't a nobody. Steve Rogers isn't nobody.  _I am not a nobody._

Steve forces himself to take a step forward. "Do you listen to yourself when you talk?"

"I do! I listen to myself all the damn time! Do you think five steps ahead before you make a stupid move?"

"Why can't you just stay out of everyone else's business?"

"Why can't you just admit that this was a mistake? This is real life, Cap. Weird as hell, from what I've learned, but there are no 'happy' accidents. This is wrong. Fucked up. She's a mistake."

He looks at Stark for a single moment, completely speechless, as the words he would scream are lost in the illegal documents that Tony's tangled into his relationships. Tony knows Beth's whole history. Her birth. Her schooling, her dreams, her funding, her past pets,  _her middle name_. Something so personal as the middle name, honoured during Steve's time for a grandparents' sake.

Something Steve doesn't know. Can't ever learn again from her lips.

… _She seems like the kind of girl that would want a nobody.  
_  
His eyes close hard, lest he show the burning beginning of tears evading along the corners. He already had to learn the secrets of his friends on 50 year old papers by strangers' hands. He had to come to closure over his father's sacrifice through a single letter, and hold the dying hand of his mother, and now Tony Stark is handing him someon _e that is still living's_  secrets as if they don't matter.

As if she, and Steve, and no one else will  _ever_ matter.

It's too close. It's too invaded. It's too secret.

"You can't know this," Steve whispers.

Tony, now complete with a highball in hand, doesn't even bat an eye at the now ruined documents he's so painstakingly collected. His black eyes shift carelessly to the Captain, his smile askew. He's hit a nerve. He can see Rogers unraveling. It's glorious. If only he could record it somehow—show the world for a good joke.

"I didn't quite catch that, Rogers." A hand cups to his ear patronizingly.

Steve's eyes lock to Tony's, black and blue. He says it again, each word coming out less conjoined. "You can't know this."

Fed up, Tony leans his waist against the edge, fingers tight around the body of his glass.

"You need to speak up, Captain." Tony orders, his voice low. His jaw cracks with every word. "I. Can't. Hear. Y—"

Before Tony can get out his final word Steve lunges across the table, fists balled tightly around the soft collar of Tony's sweater. The glass shatters between Tony's fingers as he shudders—and Steve pulls backwards, picking up the billionaire as if he weighed nothing at all. Face to face, strong fingers locking Iron Man into place across the square of his back, Steve lowers Tony face first into the plaster of inky letters that are falling all around them. The gin oozing backsplash sticks the letters to their arms, their faces.

Tony reacts as fast as he can—the pressure of a Super Soldier's strength demanding itself into the notches of his bones—he pushes back—hands planted onto Steve's shoulders—Steve's face is a furious wall—his teeth straining themselves like bricks crumbling from the pressure to conform themselves to restraint. Tony forces himself to breathe, sucking in from the blindness to his vision—there are bits of paper scraping at the soft membrane of his left eye. A hand reaches out for Steve's throat but he misses as the soldier holds him at arm's length.

E-M-x—is stuck to the mess of Tony's goatee. A C is pasted along Steve's bottom lip. Tony continues to fight the pain of blinking—not missing a shot of Rogers finally,  _finally,_  hitting him like he's always knew he could make him do. Rogers wasn't the golden boy that Howard Stark loved. Rogers wasn't fucking anyone but a dumb sickly child that got lucky. Luckier in 10,00 ways than Tony ever wanted to admit.

"You gonna do it?" Tony murmurs cuttingly. "You gonna finally hit me? I have to say, I wasn't prepared. But I'm interested in what happens next."

Fingers stronger than steel bars are forcing his shoulder blades together. Steve's pale eyes seem to narrow and still. He's so fucking still, it's like he's not even breathing.

"You are going to listen to me now, Tony?" Steve manages, his voice still a whisper.

Tony's eyes narrow tightly. He refuses to give Steve the enjoyment of having to actually give that an answer.

The blond takes a breath and then all at once leans close into Tony's ear:

 _"I said_   _you can't know this_."

Then he's gone.

As fast as Steve had him yanked halfway across his own table, the weight that is the bulldozer inside of Steve's muscles have released Tony. The black coils, wet with alcohol, wicker back and forth as Tony instantly wipes at his face, pulling the inching tabs of torn paper from his skin. I, o, 10, 3, rub off between the webbing of his fingers joints.

Steve's back in his chair as if nothing happened but the letters stuck in the blond's hair cause the billionaire to laugh in half-hearted relief that he's not going to get the full force of Steve's fist to his face. While he's laughing, harsh rows of emotionless sound, Tony grabs a towel and tries to get most of the dampness off of his jeans, his sweater, although most of the liquid is soaking into the skin around the Arc Reactor, causing him to shiver.

"Did I upset you?"

Steve glares, his eyes only slightly less fuming. A hand drives into his hair, pushing it back, only to have it fall out of its usual neat styling. "I'm not sorry."

"You wound me," Tony remarks dryly.

"That's illegal." Steve motions to the file before them both. "What you did. That's personal invasion. If you gave me a moment to explain, I was going to tell you that I fully accept that what happened was my fault." Steve swallows, and it hurts. "But you just took her personal history  _and gave it to me._  I care about her, Tony. That's  _sick._  I want to get to know her—not have you personally document her life. What if someone found that? What if Fury, or—or—"

"Or who?" Tony snaps. "You got more personal enemies that you aren't telling?"

Steve locks his jaw. "You think you see folks with knifes up their sleeves around every turn, Stark."

Tony pales, and before he knows it, he's the one that's screaming. He didn't get Rogers to actually yell, but  _he's_  screaming. _  
_  
"It's too fucking late!" Tony thunders. "It's too _late_ , Rogers! And you think you can integrate her into your toxic little gaping hole of percolating idleness? She can't help you. She can't save you from yourself, you idiot! You were brought back to serve S.H.I.E.L.D.! I thought that's what you wanted! But now you want her?! Is that what you  _want?!"_

"No one ever asked me what I wanted, and now everyone's entirely interested."

"That's because you fucked up. You walked out. You refused help. You refuse everything around you." Tony concludes bitingly.

The fire seems to quell behind the soldier's blue gaze. He breathes out, like a man shot with tranquilizer. His eyes seem huge. "I did."

Tony pads at his own face to get the sticky sour perfume of gin away from him. Steve sighs from across the table. "God—you're really something else, I swear."

Steve leans out of his seat again—motioning for Tony's towel. Reluctantly Stark slides it over, and Steve honestly begins the work of mopping up broken shards of glass and drink. "You're'a piece of work, too."

"Heh," Tony finds himself laughing again, at the base of his throat. "Didn't think you'd ever have it in you to do anything."

Steve stops the circling of the table, letters peeking out of his own sweater, which looks cheap and worn-out from Tony's tastes. "Really?"

"Uh-huh," Tony huffs, bothering himself to lean down and get the pieces off the tile.

"Do you remember what I said to you when Director Fury first organized us together?"

Tony jerks back up. His shoulders rise in a condescending scoff. "'Put on the suit, we'll go a few rounds.'"

"That's welcomed at all times," Steve adds into a bitter grin. The only expression Tony's manage to rise out of him, and it's a fucking grin.

But Tony finds himself angrily grinning right back.

A shake of Steve's head, and apparently the fight is dismissed for a moment.

"Pepper's in your life, Jane's in Thor's, why can't you trust me? Trust Beth? Once you get to know her, that is."

Tony resists the urge to roll his eyes. "Did you—the fuck was—You got a serious one-track mind problem, pal. That's a really fucked up transition, Steve. It's a woman. You've been hiding a woman, had Thor and Natasha go and scrap your sorry-ass of the pavement, and you walk back in here and expect things to be okay? Clint keeps telling me that you have some kinda scapegoat because you're unknown to the public, whereas everything I do is watched with beaded vulture eyes."

"No," Steve says quietly. "I didn't expect that. I just…wanted a chance."

"You know what I think."

Steve blinks, and suddenly he says the last thing Tony thinks he'd ever hear.

"I can hear her crying."

Tony stops, glass suddenly knuckling into his own palm. Tiny cuts forming. He can't stop himself.

"What?" He asks lamely, his voice the softest Steve's ever heard it.

"I can hear her, Pepper, crying at night. When you aren't around." Steve continues nervously, but he keeps his eyes to Tony's face, although suddenly the genius can't bring himself to face such vulnerable contact.

"What're you, ease-dropping?" Tony's voice takes on a tense edge.

A single finger taps at Steve's right ear. "I can't help what I hear sometimes. Believe you me, it's not something I want to do."

Tony finds himself walking towards Steve, the towel and glass forgotten. "Oh," the scientist adds, but the wind is ripped from him.

Steve leans back up to full height with Tony drawing near. Tony pretends he can't see the strained concern in those blue eyes. He can't see the pity, or the regret or the God forbid fucking  _understanding_ from Rogers. He can't. He just can't.

"Tony,  _what_  are you doing down there that keeps yourself away from her?"

Tony edges closer, shoulders squared, a hand motions to his wrist suddenly and Steve's eyes catch the blinding flash of a bright blue light that's radiating from under Tony's skin that isn't in his chest. The veins in green, throbbing all the way up his arms under that blackness, wrapped thinly around his lean muscles as if they're crawling their way to his neck, to his brain. To his heart.

Steve's voice is barely audible in shock. "What have you done to yourself?"

"Self-improvement. Here," Tony suddenly grasps Steve's arm, fingers digging into his flesh. "Let me show you what it can do."

Another heartbeat, and Steve can hear an excruciating groan as Tony twists—and suddenly there's  _metal_  where human skin once lay. Steve isn't sure how it's happening—but pieces of the Iron Man suit are  _flying_  around, nicking Steve along his chin and cutting through his hair, racing to get to their master. He's calling the suit to his body without making a single movement. It's flocking to him without a word, without a thought.

"Ready when you are," Tony mocks.

And then Tony's fuel fortified fist is leaned back, metal groves holding tightly to the hard panels of plate that's rushing for his face. Steve reaches up and catches Tony's fist, but the force rams the heel of his shoe into the tile and it breaks apart from under him. The large windows in the living room shudder.

Tony stops, his own dark eyes wide for a moment. The Iron Man locks in his arm peel off, dropping to the floor in tight  _pings_ , one by one. The billionaire looks exhausted and slightly confused. He blinks hard as he takes a deep breath. "Obviously it's not perfect."

"You're poisoning yourself," Steve says quietly, his voice straining not to scream it.

"So it's got a few kinks. I'm crash testing it as we speak."

"Crash testing' is right," Steve mutters thickly. "Remember when you said that everything special about me came out've a bottle? Why aren't you using your own gumption to heart? Poisoning yourself. That's what you're doing. As much as I can't stand you, Tony, you know that I know that you're slick. You're clever. But I always wondered what bottle you're willing to down to keep feeling that way."

Tony's dark eyes are dagger thin, razor points. "I still mean exactly what I said about you, Rogers."

Steve looks at Tony—really, truly looks at the man standing before him with inflected green veins running through his system—and Tony forces himself to contemplate the reflected paleness in Steve's eyes—the sweat beads across his forehead, the slight hunch that he's holding away from his side.

"No." Steve finally acknowledges. "No, you don't. You're just scared."

Tony leans aggressively forward, and reflexively Steve takes a step back. It's all Tony needs to consider it a win.

"I'm not afraid of  _anything."_

Steve takes the out to back away from the hatred in Tony's dark eyes. The hallway can't reach him fast enough, but he can't bring himself to move away just yet.

"I was told once that being brave meant that you do what you have to, even when you're afraid. I didn't mean it as an insult."

"You're full of worn out sayings." Tony snaps. "Tired and useless pieces of advice that doesn't mean a thing anymore."

Steve gives up. Tony had his say, and he had his own childish fit, and it's through. For now. His arms ache from so suddenly tearing at Tony, and his side isn't feeling so hot now that's he attempted a fight.

"You know what, Tony? You're right." Steve sighs. "I am tired. I'm tired of this conversation, and you, and—I'm goin' to go find Banner. But just…" his eyes narrow softly as he turns away. "If you won't do somethin' about yourself. Do something for Pepper. I mean…she loves you like mad. And, I can only think that if I had someone that missed me  _that_  much…well, I'd never leave her."

"You always have to be the bigger person in every fight you have, eh, Cap?" Tony smirks. His tongue licks at his lips in aggravation.

"I endangered two innocent women; bled on 'em, dragged out two of my teammates, lied to them, schemed to keep myself out of public, and attempted to choke-hold you across the table." Steve says slowly as the weight of his travels caught up with him. "I used to think I would always know how to handle situations so that I could see the high road." He sighs again and looks at his hands—hands that threatened to break his own teammate's bones. "But now. I don't feel much like the bigger man anymore."

Tony's smirk falls. Hearing Steve admit that he's in the wrong after all of this doesn't feel nearly as rewarding as he always hoped it would.

Before Tony can think of a snapper comment to make of that, Steve's out of the room, leaving him with a moist towel, shattered $400 highball hand-made glass, broken designer tiles, and letters weeping across the room. He finds the letter P stuck to his neck, and sighs. He pockets it without a second thought.


	25. Edge Of The World

_For me, the hero's journey is not the voyage from weakness to strength. The true hero's journey is the voyage from strength to weakness._

* * *

She doesn't feel the blanket over her shoulders. There are three exit signs, all pointing in a round-a-bout way, working their blinking, omnipresent eyes all over the observatory. Because that's what Elizabeth can only surmise that she's been brought to. Something large, cold, and dangerous. There are people dressed in black suits, moving around her, and she finally moves from her seat, forward. She's been sitting here for too long, and  _no one has said anything to her._

The first step knocks her off-balance, and she falls, startling against the cool titles. She is stunned for a moment, and the high windows around her make her feel so small, so lost. There are people shifting, moving in and about her, passing lightly, shadows carrying through her as if she doesn't exist. It's been such a long time since she's been so close to a crowd. It's like a whole new kind of culture shock. It feels…unnatural.

Her head turns slowly, taking in the view. There's an ocean somewhere far out to the east by window. The north wall's back only rise gives way to seats —a shiver runs down her spine. It's made for watching something.

A hand collects on her shoulder, forcing her to look up at the first person to notice her since she was hustled through the steel trap doors, wet, cold, and alone.

"Miss Ross? Elizabeth Ross? Or do you prefer 'Betty'?"

He has an eye patch.

Betty blinks, a small flicker of fear chasing down her spine before she steels herself again, the blue in her eyes full of nothing but confusion and contempt. She opens her mouth to speak, jaw popping at the sound, and although they're not alone, the presence of the man with the eye patch is isolating.

And for a split second, Director Fury thinks that the young woman is going to strike him.

The blanket has come apart from her, and he is one that carefully unfolds more grey wool blanket and tucks in around the said woman's shoulders, but her hand is raised up so close to his cheek that he's certainly expecting it. He debates throwing her out, if she honestly tries. She's been completely useless so far, beyond her screaming profanities during the final chase. But she mostly just stares at him, mouth open, fingers extended, completely still.

_Good._  He thinks.  _She should stay that way. Just like her monster of a lover, then._  
  
Suddenly, she speaks.

"Why?"

Her question seems to echo through the chamber, a bullet of a word, dead center. The shadows never slow. No one else stops to listen. No one cares.

"Why?" The man parrots, urgent, hard pressed, and deep. His eyebrows rise. "Because we had to."

Betty shakes her head. His words don't mean anything. "Let me see him."

"Miss Ross, I understand you're upset, but I have a crew's safety to consider—"

"I said  _let me see him,"_  Betty commands, finding her voice. The dark skinned man before her slowly takes this in, breathing once through his nose. He turns in a swift final decision, and she follows close behind, watching everything.

Nine doors. She counts them as they pass under them. Nine doors mark the distance from the exit she was placed near.  _Nine._

The trench coated man stops, and ducks his head to glance behind her. Betty's stare is instantaneously heated, full of all the hatred that's barely being compressed inside of her. She rips the blanket from her shoulders, balls it up, and tosses it at the shined shoes of the eye patched man. He simply sighs again at her, and shakes his head.

"You have five minutes."

Her footsteps echo softly into the containment chamber, mainly because they stripped her of anything weapon like, which apparently included socks. The cool, thick tiles tessellated beneath Elizabeth's feet, chilling the soles of her ankles and locked into her knees—and she told herself that was the reason her legs were shaking.

Then she sees Bruce, and he is just lying there. Just lying there. Motionless.

Betty blanches, paling every inch of her skin, her mouth gently lofting open into his name, but she wanted to do so much  _more_  than that. She wanted to scream, she wanted to open up her arms and pick every single piece of him from the floor, hold him up, escape from this—She glanced around, her near silent padding slowing down— _Place._

The walls were clear, almost glass-like, but she knew better than to think even  _she_  could break their barriers. Yet again those seats make their appearance. It's not as hostile as Bruce had described, but it's only just begun. A part of her morbidly wants to know what else they could possibly do.  
 _  
They're idiots to think they'll be enough._

Suddenly, a dark face is at those windows, searching for her narrows her eyes faintly at the tall, trench coat wearing "leader" of the whole organization that had stolen so much from her. He met hers expertly; his eyes dark and weary as his mouth formed into a scowl. Elisabeth could easily tell that he didn't want her in here.

She quickly looks away, practically straining her neck with the effort it takes to make herself not look back. The man with the eye patch never blinks.

"Bruce?" Betty whispers, falling to her knees, hands blindingly reaching for his arm. His eyes are open. "Bruce, can you hear me?"

Bruce's strain brown eyes cracked for their primary point, and moved slowly over her, his pupil dilating and expanding. His fingers twitch, and he pushes faintly off the titles, hunched, twisting away from her as if her touch would hurt him. His mouth is open, and there's spittle leaking down his chin and along his throat pathetically. His eyes are still wide, waiting for something.

"Bruce," She whispers again, her voice wracking with pain. "What did they  _do_ to you?"

She briefly runs her fingertips over his jaw, wiping away the free-falling liquid, but the vacancy never leaves his eyes.

Somewhere in the reinforced steel of the panels above them the shrill of speaker system leaks through.

"Miss Ross, I have to ask you not to touch the subject."

Her fingers curl into a fist, but she doesn't take her eyes off of Bruce. "He has a name."

"Then my deepest apologies for my lack of manners," the scathing voice of the Director coughs back at her. "I do believe I said  _don't fucking touch Doctor Banner._  This is not a honeymoon, and you are playing with more than just your own life here. You have four minutes left before we escort you out."

She pulls her hand away—not for Director Fury's sake—no, she tells herself, she'd find a way to get at  _him_ —but because a small red dot has suddenly nuzzled itself into the center of Bruce's forehead. She forces herself not to turn away, not to cry out, because she's so certain that six more are lining down his throat, dripping into the now reddening reflection of endless liquid running from his eye ducts, nostrils, and his mouth.

She hardens her shoulders, pushing the sharp points of their boney structure through the tight fabric of her button-down. She hasn't eaten a whole meal in nearly three months and for Bruce, who constantly refused her efforts of sharing, it was even longer. He was urgent about where they could shop, where they could sleep, and that encompassed to just about nowhere. It seemed like these people, these secret spies or government branches were everywhere. Something entirely unexpected and smooth and silent and definitely outside of anything that she had learned growing up on military bases with her U.S. Military Officer of a father. There was nowhere safe. It was all ruined. Ruined because of tears and dirt and ash that clung to its stitches from both their efforts to run and run and run and never stop until they could jump off the edge of the world.

It was ruined like their relationship was the day he asked her to marry him.

It was ruined because they had done everything right. She had projected maps and coordinates and underground third-world country evaluations routes and human-trafficking dens. They exercised and schemed and never stopped running. Sure, she was tired of not having a home. She had found out all too late that you can't make a home inside of a human being. Certainly not for Bruce—he was born a broken shelter, and Betty did not want to admit not far she'd gone in resenting Bruce for everything that he had lied to her about, but yet she still came back to him.

The hard truth wasn't that they failed. They'd succeeded. They found the edge of the world. It was right here, in between the foot distance between her lips reaching down to kiss the impending explosion that threatened the inside of his skull, and the seemly thousands of agents with blue and black eyes that stared at their fallen decent.

His skin felt unnaturally hot inside that swollen dot where she had seen a bullet crack through the tight florescent-white bones of his skull and twist off—emerald roaring through the shatter window pane that Betty refused to look out of. She kissed the wound anyway.

She knew what he was. She had known for so much longer that she'd ever allow Bruce to know. She couldn't ever say it didn't change anything. It changed everything. Everything was in ruins now. Everything.

"I will not ask you again to—" Fury's voice growls harshly.

"When can I see him again?" Betty demands. This time her dark blue eyes found Fury's and she did not care if the hundreds of pairs of others that saw her weeping, her own face a bloodstained mess.

His scowl lifted, turned, and settled like a current in a chilling sea. "As of this time, I couldn't say."

"Not like this you goading  _prick_ ," Betty hisses. "Consciously. When do I get to  _really_  see him?"

Director Fury's tight black eye seemed to glower in its crystal obeisance. "Frankly Miss Ross, if it were up to me, Banner would never have a semi-coherent thought again."

"You can't kill him," Betty states impassively, her eyes never leaving Fury's.

"That is a debatable factor, Miss Ross."

"You can't," she insists. "I'm not telling you this because I fear you, or this cage, or you bullshit organization. I am warning you."

A smirk lit up the cooling stone that seemed to weigh every one of Fury's expressions.

"There are other ways to kill a beast."

Betty doesn't even content the speaker with a rebuttal. She turns back to Bruce—the terrified out of his senselessly brilliant mind that is too short-sighted to understand that his bloodshot eyes are at a lost for continuously searching his round cage for a corner to hide in. She inches closer on the balls of her ankles, and even sitting like this aches the hell out of her calves—there's a knife wound that she's wrapped up from the wrong end of a bastard's bottle that was tossed at her from where they had found them in Lebanon.

She grasps at his leg, trying pin him into place—and, so much like a wounded animal, he freezes. She wonders what she could possibly say to him now. That she's sorry? No, she's not sorry. She's livid. She feels so alone in a room full of a thousand people with ridge backs and harrowed stares. She feels defeated, too, and a tiny bit selfishly ashamed. Worst of all, she feels empty. She never believed fully in this dream that Bruce kept rambling about, late at night when they were half-starved and half-drunk on the idea that it could be their last. Freedom isn't free. She gets it now. She knows that somehow she's always known this is what it would end to. It's something Betty, and these people, and Bruce, for having all the time in the world, and yet this is the end of the line. And she'd been staring it in the face every time she'd look at him.

She touches him again to no reaction besides his labored breathing.

She wishes she had something to say. Christ, it's like she's giving a eulogy in front of a thousand strangers that were wishing they both were dead. She should have been better prepared for this.

Fury wastes no time in telling that she's just biding for stage.

"Your time is up. Agent Coulson, would you so kindly see Miss Ross out of Doctor Banner's chambers?"

A quiet thrum of a chambered door is pried open. A modestly dressed man stood at its edge, the tips of his leather shoes shinning her way. His dirty-blonde hair was vainly thinning itself bald even for his young age. He is labeled in a black suit, white undershirt, and name tag. God how Betty hated all these goddamn soulless formalities.

"I imagine you'll need a change of clothes—and uhm, a hot meal?" He says gently. He doesn't reach for her like Fury does. He just stands awkwardly off to the side, studying her disheveled fashion. "I don't know what your plans are for tonight, but I've been instructed to do just that for you while medical procedures are performed on—on Doctor Banner."

"I don't want to go anywhere with you." She's traveled for 263 days, nonstop for most of them. All she's known is tactics for hiding, for parkouring. Stopping was never the option. This was never the plan. She isn't used to not getting exactly what she's planned.

Somehow he's gotten closer and she forgets to get her own fists ready.

"I understand, ma'am, but, well, it isn't just orders. I've put in personally that you'll perhaps like to join me for dinner tonight. I can…explain more, for you, if it suits your taste. And…there's a certain General that wishes to see you. Your—uh, father, I've been told." He gestures to the wide pane doors before them that shine a waxy unsympathetic colour that churns her stomach like she's chewed nothing but used syringe needles till this point in their journey.

"Or, I can have Agent Hill take you to another spare holding area. There's a shower, a cot, the works, but, I'm telling you—I make a killer  _Filet mignon_."

Betty doesn't quite know if that this gentleman before her understands how much  _shit_  she's been through and how ungodly full of it he sounds. But he's all soft, sorry-smiles, and it's more compassion she's seen any of the other robots around here.

She walks passed him without looking back for Bruce, knowing that if she does one more time, she'll get a red dot aimed at her own skull, and she'll make them fire.

* * *

Time passes without anyone telling him otherwise. All the walls are white. There are no windows. The lights are on day and night. It's a bitch to sleep at all, even if his conscious wasn't full of screaming children and people and animals that he has slaughtered.

* * *

One night is suddenly different. The lights mysteriously turn off. At first, Bruce is so frightened for his own body that he thinks he's officially gone blind.

Then, Betty's there, sliding over him and laying on top of his single blanket that's way too warm. It's always outrageously hot in the building his captors have placed him in.

He moans tiredly against her intrusion, his head still pounding. On a three and a quarter hour rotation he's tied down and injected with 17 different solutes—and that's only from what he can remember coherently. He keeps track of hours this way. He keeps track of what they're doing to him this way. Mostly, he's too numb to form much of an option on anyone. There's a lot of pain somewhere in there too, like someone is slowly picking at his insides with a hot scalpel, scraping at the inside of his bones as if they're looking for some secret "off" button to his rampage. Whenever it is, he swears he's begged them that it isn't inside of him, but they never stop.

No one ever speaks to him. He gave up asking where Betty was. He gave up asking how many survived the destruction of The Other Guy and how many didn't. He gave up knowing the date or the weather or if the Red Soxs still sucked the big one.

Another uneven shake of the cot, and he instantly starts more awake. A part of him is relieved. He hasn't gotten to see her since—since he isn't even sure. Two days or two weeks? And even then, she's only allowed to watch him. He's tried mouthing phrases to her. It would seem he's always lost in translation.

"'m pretty sure this is a cause for alarm. I might smile and Fury'll have to send in another around of Agents to try and break my arm." He mutters, his voice hoarse from lack of simulation.

"Phil's on this watch. He said it was fine as long as we just stay like this. Be still. Shut up."

Bruce's eyes still can't adjust to the rotunda pitch black camber of his quarters, but he tries anyway. She could have said they're alone and he'd completely believe it.

Almost.

"You're on first name basis?" Bruce manages, faintly aghast.

"I feel like I practically live here now." Her thick brown hair mingles a pattern of shadows in rusty-near beard he's been unwittingly growing. "So, yeah, basically."

"And why don't I get to meet anyone?" He asks facetiously.

Betty curls into the hard bone of sternum, arms relaxed loosely around his neck. "They're frightened by you?"

"Huh," Bruce's emotionless chuckle parts his lips. "I wish I could tell my Fourth Grade bully that."

"What was his name again? Hensen?"

"Yeah," Bruce agrees quietly. "Hensen."

They're silent for a moment as Bruce counts her breathing in, as if they are back at her apartment a lifetime ago watching the snow fall for the 27th time in a New York December. Slowly, Bruce can feel the crawl of Betty's fingers spider-walking their way down his waist. He clears his throat cautiously. It wasn't out of her nature. Betty was always anything but subtle, especially in her work ethic. Bruce likes to led himself to believe that's the first thing that attracted him to her—and maybe the fact that she always leaned over the desk with a V-neck—her blue eyes daring him to break contact for a peep.

He keeps his eyes to the ceiling. "I hope you know what you're doing, because I don't want to be shot in the head again for possibly making a sound above a whisper." He reconsiders dying alone against the idea of having sex with Betty one last time on an old uncomfortable cot in the center of a lecture hall with some other man watching, and  _then_  being shot dead. Well, if he  _had_  to choose. "—Actually, I digress. That's fine by me."

"Relax. I'm checking for something."

"I promise you, I'm sadly in complete working order." Bruce tries not to let the watered-down anxiety enter his tone. He was praying for a plan. What he was getting was another too hot body in the crushing dark. But at least she was here. Thank God she was here. He was starting to literally lose his mind.

"All this time and you still talk when you're nervous?"

"You're the first person I've spoken to in weeks, Elizabeth. I never want to talk just to hear my own voice."

"It's a belt."

"What would I need that for?"

"It'll stretch—you know, in…in case. And you don't have to worry about your pants."

"I think losing my  _pants_  are the last of my worries right now, Bet."

"Just in case."

"Betty, I'm not going to…to change again. I'm not going to let that happen."

She fixes it around his waist and then goes still against him. Whenever he breathes out, she rises up—and in the dark he can't see her expression. He imagines her smiling, but she's not. He imagines her laughing and happy, but she isn't. He imagines that this is the lovely silhouette that her body will glow, and her face will shimmer, and she'll look like this untouchable piece of postmodern art in the view some other guy will get when she leaves, because he never can.

"Just in case," she whispers, fingers to his belt loops like he's the only remaining hold to their entire universe.

* * *

A year could of passed in this endless, never ending day. He says it, if anything, for something new to talk about. They've changed whatever they've been pumping into him. He feels detached from his own body. She's there this hour, but it's all just hours now. It's like someone else is speaking for him, and he knows it isn't The Other Guy, but  _for_  some  _other guy._

"You can leave, if you want."

"What?" She tries so hard to continue to sound offended.

"Betty, I'm a monster." A thick swallow—the sound like a chuckle deep inside rises up. "A murderer. I can't even look at myself in the mirror."

"There aren't any mirrors here."

"Oh, that's not a problem. I can still see me just fine. You can't see me, though. That worries me."

"Everything worries you," she asides, but this other voice isn't having it.

"You should leave. What if I want you to leave?"

"You don't want for anything, Bruce."

They're silent for a moment.

"I want my glasses back," Bruce disagrees sluggishly.

It's a game. Maybe the whole idea of them escaping was once a game that they played as love sick children.

She volleys back into the debate. "If they make me leave I'll just keep coming back to you."

"Why?" He asks, but he doesn't bother to really care. It's gotten so hard to care.

Suddenly, Betty is right in his face. "I've given up everything for you, Bruce. Everything. My career I spent fourteen years in college for, my home, my friends. My own  _family_  disowned me!  _What_  do  _I_ have  _left_ to go  _back_ to?"

Her words sink in like heavy anchors that pin him to the floor. He's clearer now, what shatter parts that still loosely fit together. His eyebrows screw themselves up thickly, grey at their edges.

"You're not here because of me…anymore..? I'm just…I'm just the fall out?"

A hand presses to the bridge of her nose, frustrated. Her face flushes red in spite. "No. No." A sigh. "Bruce, you're not a weapon."

"Oh, yes I am. I'm the best kind. I'm a bomb. No one ever comes away completely unscathed from an explosion." He nods surreptitiously. "But let's not escape the real issue here. I'm just what's left for you and all the terrible things that have happened to you thus far in your terrible life." He explains bitterly, turning the phrase ' _terrible_ ' each time like a slap to her wonderful childhood with a loving home and plenty of money and parents that are still together.

She gets it. She gets what he's doing, mocking her against his equally miserable existence.

"Oh  _please,_  Bruce! For God's sake, I was going to marry  _you!"_

It all slows into a free-fall around him. His throat feels coated in chalk dust.

"'Going to'? Past tense?"

"Christ Bruce, for nearly six months I didn't know if we'd  _survive_  along enough to have a future tense! Don't do this to me, okay? I've tried and I've fled and I've been beaten and martyred just like you—except I don't get to turn into a monster to take care of my problems. My parents stayed together even when their marriage was a broken mess—sometimes I just wish things split cleanly—just  _once_. It wasn't fucking perfect. What do you want me to say?  _Sorry?"_

"You think I _want_  this?"  
 _  
"You must've damn wanted it enough to go ahead and inject yourself with the failed Super Soldier Serum without telling anyone at the Project first!"_

He blinks slowly at her, but she doesn't focus in his vision. He just wishes he had his glasses back. He breathes out. He looks at the ceiling as if expecting the night to come crashing down on him and him alone, but that's a foolish hope. The day never ends.

* * *

Bruce's real, true, humble wish was that he could be allowed a calendar along his four bare walls. Something to mark the passing of time. Because she did come back the next day, and the next. It was like a cycle of good and bad days that criss-crossed into a never ending nightmare of Agents in black clothing that apparently stalked his every twitch. Slowly, he learned more about S.H.I.E.L.D. About Fury. If he knew just how many days he'd get with Betty, he would have made them last, even if it was between three glass panes where they couldn't often speak and they couldn't touch. There was unspoken countdown forming in the minutes spent between them that ended too soon. She never said she wouldn't come back to him.

But she never said goodbye, either.

* * *

"—Goodbye, I can't believe I actually got to say it to someone." A pause. A soft sigh. "Finally."

Steve's talking. Bruce finds himself rudely deep in his own thoughts. The kid—dare he even say that to Captain America's face, he isn't so sure—but he's got about 15 years Steve's senior, so he figures that it'll do—but the kid's endearingly talking to himself outside of Bruce's door.

Bruce makes a point of rattling the cool handle loudly before opening up to Steve's surprised face.

"Steve—uh—Sorry, I didn't know you were out here."

"Doctor Banner," Steve greets warily, a slight fear on his entirely too earnest features. "You're in?" A hand thumbs backwards, as if towards something. "Tony said—"

Bruce allows himself a short, sullen sigh, a single hand pushing at his glasses. "You shouldn't listen to Tony tonight. He's been—" he falters—" in his lab."

It takes a moment for Steve to get exactly what the good Doctor is getting at, but when he does, it's a full on grimace. "I may have possibly choked him. Should you see to him before—?"

Bruce shrugs. "You wouldn't be the first." A sudden solid look of focus wraps up Bruce's usually neutral countenance. "Besides, I've been waiting a long while to see you back from— your, uh, adventure." He carefully grasps Steve's bicep—"You think you could make it to the gym again—it's easier to check your side down there?"

"Sure," Steve says, full grit smile, sweat sticking down his face.

"Great. Because from the way you look, I'd guess it hurts pretty bad. And it's infected. I can't say I didn't tell you you shouldn't be up and about—but then again, I never scored dates for ruining my rugged good looks."

Steve being back from his excursion forces the image of Betty once again into Bruce's head.

_All from before. He met her at the lamppost across from her apartment four months after they had first met while working for the Gamma Ray Project, a cover for another Super Serum. The night laid itself low across New York, and he could count the grids by which every light would spark to life. It was their first date._

_"You're late, Banner."_

_He grins. This is so much better than seeing her at work. "I know. I promise that I get better from here."_

_She smiles back just as pointedly saccharine. "I've made a few deductions while I was bored here, waiting, and I've come to the conclusion that your statement is full of shit."_

_He throws back his head and laughs. "But I'm persistent—that's at least something."_

_"It's a good thing I pride myself on being annoyingly allusive, if one is annoyingly late." She reaches out her hand and gives him a wink. "Catch me if you can."_

With a wad of gauze in his mouth, Steve is impressed with how well Bruce can articulate himself.

"So?" Banner says expectantly as Steve tries to politely make better acquaintance with the work bench than stare into the intensity of a Doctor-Mode Bruce Banner's eyes.

"Pardon?"

"I hear you create this whole fiasco for that woman you mentioned—" his teeth create grooves into the soft skin of the white fabric. "Forget her name, sorry to say." That's not entirely true, but Bruce really doesn't want to start tasting the sourness of it so soon.

Steve pales alarmingly, and instantly Bruce presses his pointer and index finger to the soldier's neck. "Whoa—talk to me, what's wrong?"

"Just." Steve stammers unsure, his blue eyes nervous. "You said you didn't want to know about…that."

Bothered, Bruce clears his throat. "Her. I can't meet her, but I can't exactly escape the gossip mill that is a group of Super Heroes living together in a giant glowing tower. Despite the social myth, I've heard Clint and Tony bicker about you more than Pepper or Jane. I'd rather hear it straight from the source. Plus, I, um, sort've have to open your wound soon to clean out the infection. So…I figure you might want to start thinking about pleasant things."

Steve chuckles shallowly, his eyes very aware of the necessary invasion of his wound.

"It was..." he says softly, his blue eyes trying to focus. "Amazing."

"Well, gosh, don't leave a guy to wonder or anything." Bruce continues with gentle sarcasm.

Steve glances at the hard lines on Bruce's face and finds that he can't bring himself to just mindlessly chatter about Beth like he's fit to gloat about anything. He finds himself leaning more towards finding out about the doctor's distinct lack of interest in meeting her, as the others so readily were. He figured, like any one with common sense, it had to do with his condition—but there was something about it that kept Steve from letting it lie.

"Tony—well, I know he's on a bender, but I've gotta ask—it's gonna drive me nuts."

"Ah?" Bruce pronounces carefully.

"He said you wouldn't be here. I asked if I was somehow runin' you out, but…well, ya see, I asked you before…" A hand pushes at his blonde hair, stuck to his forehead. "Sheesh, never guessed I'd be such a busybody."

"Better ask soon—I'm getting the knife ready."

Steve steels himself, irons up his courage and spits it out: "It's about why you can't see Beth."

The knife goes in, even with Bruce in control. His hands don't even shake. Bruce swallows, already taping up the blackened, infected skin and contaminated blood. He breathes in for a count— _onetwothreeonetwothreeonetwothree._

"Well…I can't say I'll offer much more than what I already invariability said."

"Just, just why?" Steve asks clumsily, fingers wrapped forcefully under the edge of the bench.

_Why?_ God, Bruce can't allow himself to show the contempt he feels over that word.

"I lost someone." Bruce says shortly. He turns back to clean the knife, then back, his lips a scowl. "I'm afraid I have to go deeper to get the infected issue out. Otherwise your system will heal with dead tissue."

Steve swallows. "Lost? Can't you send her a letter? Do—people still do that, right?"

"I don't know where she is." Bruce declares slowly. He glances at the silver tools, smooth and cool inside the palm of his hands. They seem to almost glow in the chilled backspace of Tony's lab. He presses the edge of the knife across Steve's side, gingerly cutting out the surprisingly clean finish to Natasha's handiwork. Bruce's shoulders straighten, and then give back out in the silence between them. "I can't know where she is."

Steve's quiet, even when the knife enters deeper inside to clean it out—Bruce knows it hurts. He continues his quiet chatter, uneasy at how the conversation has taken a turn towards himself.

"You okay?"

Steve tilts his head minimally. "I'm used to this."

"This?" Bruce says in tight disbelief.

"No—the whole pulling the wool over the doctor's eyes. The less I act in pain, the more I'd be likely to pass."

Bruce's scowl lightens up at the idea of a 30's style pain test. But then again, the medical procedures weren't entirely to code. "To pass what back then, exactly?"

"I dunno. Anything, I guess. I just wanted a chance at all times."

"Yeah," Bruce says gently, taping up his side. "You're certainly good at proving that." He eases Steve back onto his feet. "No more running around for a while longer. I can't say when that'll be healed—Hell, you took Thor's hammer and ran around New York City less than 24 hours later so. You could be fine in five minutes." His dark brown eyes darken warningly. "But if I find you trying that on my watch again…" Bruce lets off, his tone only half threatening. The soldier looks exhausted enough to not be escaping again.

"Yes sir, doctor's orders," Steve agrees happily, a hand tight to the new stitching. The other reaches into his pocket, and, to Bruce's surprise, he has his cellphone within it. "I actually have a phone call to make."

"Do you?" Bruce's edges carefully around to clean the lab. "Well, good luck with that." He shakes his head at the very idea of Steve Rogers smooth talking a woman.

"Thanks," Steve rubs sorely at his side, padding slowly to the stairs. He stops halfway up, comes back down, and before Banner knows it, Steve's helping him pick up his own bloodied mess.

A soft snort echoes a distance away, almost as if Steve's earned himself a new approval of Bruce's limited emotional spectrum. "I can't tell if you're so good-natured you actually walked all the way back down here to clean up what I'm supposed to normally do, or you're just really scared to make that call."

The soldier laughs softly, but the motion along his ribs makes his face glow a bit green. "It's both. You're a mind reader."

Banner smirks at him. "Not at all. I just know how hard it is to make a call."

Slowly, Steve straightens. "Bruce?"

"Mhm?" Bruce offers as he wipes the perspiration off his glasses lenses.

"Thank you. Really—And uh, I haven't forgotten. About what you said to me."

Bruce looks Steve square in the eye, his face vulnerable. "That's good to hear, but I would let you forget anyway."

* * *

**AN:**  Thank you for braving the waters that was the revise of this chapter, special thanks to the advice of Nova Fearnewood. I promise I'll do my very best to keep things less...sloppy, from now all.

Sadly that's the only Betty!perspective chapter we're gonna get. I'm already balancing so many characters (Dat Fury's Fury, dat AGENT COULSOOOONNN, he's such a sweetie.) as I honestly can't handle much more of them. But I wanted her in here, if to break up the conflict and the massive amounts of character to character confrontations, but to give a bit more depth into what happened between Bruce and Betty

Once again,that's not their whole story nor all that happened in the beginning, middle and end, but this is Steve and Beth's story. I PROMISE YOU IT IS. Just.  **All this character development. IT ALL ADDS UP TO A CLIMAX,**  plllleasssee believe me! :D Thank you SO very much again for ALL who are enjoying! Please, please leave me a review and let me know what's good? It just means so much, any words, honestly, good, bad, questions, ect, for how much fun I've having as well as trying to deliver as best of a story as I can. Special thanks to my muse TitansGirl1234 and Goldenpuon!

See below:

Discussion time:

(headcanon)

The character of Bruce Banner:

It is remarked to me that the way we often speak will define our viewpoints of the passing of time. Through the use of Doctor Banner, I have hammered my own attempt at a kind of character syntax. In Tony's way, he is focused on the present: he fights for words such as "can, will, I, know, ect" in direct contrast to his person, which in a way could be Steve Rogers, would also be Bruce Banner. Bruce is stuck where in his past it is that is entirely his fault, and his alone. Steve has the of making the choice to take the Serum, join the army, take the plane into the water—but a lot of his destiny was chance—he could have died many times, he could have exploded, he could have been rejected. Rogers, is more ways than one, got  _lucky_. Bruce perhaps is the extremity of a person's "unluckiness". Indeed, it is "Bad Luck Banner" that prides Bruce into his extremities to, if not only become The Hulk, but his choices to run and hide, and take Betty with him. Bruce sees his past, and his terrible future, as a slide show of his mistakes, his choices. Whereas Steve reflects the will of God into his path, Tony rejects the aspect of not having control over every move (and everyone elses') that is made, Bruce cannot give himself into the reprieve of such speculations. He made his choices, and sees nothing up to chance. In saying this, I do not mean to give about the idea that Banner himself is not at the whim of circumstance—but merely that, to me, he is debatably the strongest character that has shaped his fears, achievements, and attributes through choice. He is the strongest being (next to Thor?), he is a monster, and to deny Bruce ("I sometimes don't always get what I want") is not always a factor.

 


	26. Steve's Phone Call

The near deafening silence of his room feels slightly more bearable with his cellphone resting on his bed. It's a funny feeling, but it's like he can look at it and just know that there's someone expecting something from him that isn't a mission plan, or a military-call rotation. It's almost exhausting knowing that you're basically connected to any person at all times with the thing.  _Well_ , Steve finds himself rubbing at his face in regret.  _Almost_. But this time there's no wires he can rip from the wall, nor phone cradle to crush.

He checks the phone a few times, although every time the little battery shaped icon informs him that it's 93 percent charged, and there's a strong wireless signal, and that nothing should go wrong in obstructing Beth's call to him, but Steve can't help antagonize every minute of something to go wrong.

He pulls out some old ink pens and doodles what at first was the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree, but it somehow has turned into something that looks more like a lumpy train. He dots it anyways with tiny Christmas bulbs—the kind from his childhood that wouldn't ever light up, they couldn't afford them to and equally have house lights, but God how they sparkled in the candlelight. God how they made the house seem, for a single month, just like every other. Tiny glowing threes that held out the dark while he waited for his father to come home from his part-time work on the Empire State Building.

He was just finishing up the newly added star that he had noticed adorned along the giant tree's top to complete his Christmas Train when his mobile jumps, lighting up his bed like a firework. He fumbles, reaching across the bed while smearing fresh ink along his white-t shirt. He rolls his eyes. Something to go wrong, of course. At least she isn't here to see it. Although, he honestly wishes that this piece of plastic was her hand, and not a phone.

He takes a deep breath, still shaky from his side, from the entire day, from the last time he used a phone, and says as happily as he can: "Good evening—"

"Captain Rogers," a dark voice greets minimally.

He's at attention instantly, the ghost of Colonel Chester Phillips at his heels to  _show respect, damned string bean!_

"Director Fury, sir, how are you this evening?"

There's a crackle over the line where Steve can just hear the makings of a deep breath. "I forget how much more pleasant you are to talk with than just about anyone under my own programme." Fury begins, his voice as rumbling and demanding as ever. "I'm doing just fine, thank you."

Silence. The kind where Steve finds he can't move around to break the reinforced stance to wait for a command. Like breathing. Or speaking. It's hard enough to have anything near  _casual_ conversation with a man like Fury. It's even harder to have it while not being able to look him in the eyes. Eye.

Thankfully, Fury doesn't beat around the bush.

"Rogers, can I be frank with you?" He doesn't wait for answer, doesn't bother with one, although Steve finds himself nearly responding despite the obvious undertone that Fury would not take kindly to being answered. "I don't do this kind of thing. I don't really see the need to make calls to my Agents when they are  _on call_."

Steve resists the urge to click his tongue, something he's beginning to pick up from over-hearing Tony's experiences with Fury over conduct and contusions and other rules that all of them know Stark's never going to think about, not even once. But Stark does have a grating point about Fury. The man knows he's powerful, and throws all his weight into it. It's a little bit of pride that Steve's found himself fighting against, but now he's working for. As reluctant as that might be. He can't bring himself to act childishly through it like Stark. He has a bit more tact than that.

"Sir?" Steve answers wearily.

"I called because I've heard a bit of an interesting update about you."

Steve freezes, caught between the layered reflection of himself in the metal paint along his door, and his ability to forge a quick, much-needed response. He finds his mind whirling a million miles an hour back to what Tony first warned him about Fury:  _He's_ the _spy. Even his secrets have secrets._

"And you've come to check the facts, then?"

"Of course I am. It's all simple really. Just a question is all I'm asking you. Then I'm not planning to call back again unless you're getting shipped with Romanoff to Germany. Which you might be. I'd keep a bag packed, if I were you."

"Yes sir," Steve says clearly. He lingers over the space of his lodgings, finding it all rather bare and entirely too clean. It's not lived in. It's just someplace to sleep at night, and sleep poorly at that. It's nothing like Beth's—with whom he's had so rapidly become acquainted with, with a pile of socks in the corner and a stuffed childhood animal. "I don't have much to take anyway."

The Director pauses for a stretch, and Steve feels the sweat gathering at the end of his fingertips. Fury's doing it on purpose, Steve knows he is. "I've been told you've been rather unhappy lately."

Steve swallows tightly. He isn't sure how close he is to the wire. One false move, and Fury could easily cut the cord between him and a civilian. "Not at all, sir."

"Captain Rogers. I'm only going to ask you this once." Although they're on the same intangible space, Steve somehow feels the presence of Fury leaning towards him. "We can provide you plenty of medical services here, Rogers. If you're ever feeling…" Somehow, Fury's struggling for the words. "Lonely. You know where you are welcomed."

_And I know exactly where I don't want to be,_ Steve answers as loudly as his inner voice can get. "I've been informed before, sir."

"I know that isn't something you might think is commendable, considering how war was dealt with in your time. But things change, son. For better, and for worse."

"Yes sir," Steve agrees, his tone far too neutral for the darkness that he protests deep inside of Fury. Ever since meeting the man, Steve isn't sure to be extremely honored that there's a steady hand to the mega-wheel that is the safety of America, or alarmed that this is what  _becomes_  of such a hand. It's all so grey-toned and black tinted. A hand rubs again at Steve's jaw. Sometimes, sometimes he just wishes it was black and white as it all used to be.

"Alright then," If at all physically possible, the leader of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s tone lightens. "On to another matter of business. I can only imagine that you've been informed of what our next move is with your engagement towards S.H.I.E.L.D. protocol?"

His heart sinks. S.H.I.E.L.D. protocol, from what Steve had learned, came at a very conforming cost. "No sir, I'm afraid I've missed that memo."

"Well, Captain, I would suggest checking your closet sometime soon, then. Now I've got to go." He pause's, sharp and direct. "And if you're going to lie to me, I'd suggest taking a lesson from Natasha. You could use that in the field."

His knees feel weak, but he mostly wants to crush the phone with it. Fury's underhand prods, near threats, are something Steve has to try and swallow like everyone else, he supposes. But it still leaves him wondering what exactly Fury is referring to. And he can only guess that's exactly the point of Fury saying it in the first place.

He forces a chuckle. "Of course, sir. You know I'm no good at this kind of thing. I don't suppose I'll ever need to lie again to get what needs to be done."

"This is what S.H.I.E.L.D. is for then, Captain, as much as that's shocking to hear. Because the common good can't hear it, you see."

"Sir," Steve says as a farewell, although he's completely on edge for more.

"Good night, Captain Rogers."

The line goes dead, and Steve sighs out. He tosses the pad and pen away, suddenly disgusted at his work. When was the last time he attempted to draw something? Sometime…sometime just before meeting Beth for the first time? It's just garbage now. He peels off his stained shirt, mindful of his side, hits the light, and crashes into the cold mattress, not even bothering to hike up the sheets. He puts his back deliberately to the closet.

Whatever Fury's after, he ain't getting it tonight.

* * *

A light goes off the looks so much like the explosion of a bomb that he jumps, halfway lingering somewhere between dead asleep and entirely wound up. His side protests in a hiss that he lets out from between his teeth. He tosses, somehow tangled in the sweat along his sheets— _got it._

"Hello?" He rasps angrily, his heart wild—because he's just lying in the dark in his room, and there's no bomb. There's no war, there's no Bucky, or Peggy, and he doesn't quite understand why phones have gotten so  _bright_  over the decades.

There's a delay, as if someone on the other end is debating to speak or hang up. Steve wishes they'd hurry up and make a move.  
 _  
_"Do…do I always call you at a bad time?" Beth's voice bubbles awkwardly. "Or should I just...pretend that…that…I…uh…should I go?"

It takes him a second in his sleep-logged brain. "'Go'?— _No,_  no, don't go." He pulls the phone tighter against his ear.

"Well," her voice changes, slightly too loud, but very chipper. "It's nice to know when a lady is welcomed."

Steve can't help but just grin at her like crazy, and she isn't even near him. Never, in his entire life would he imagine that he could lie in a bed and talk to a woman and not feel like shimmying out of his skin. But he also supposes the distance helps.

"You sound really nice," he says instantly, not entirely sure what that entire compliment really even means.

"So do you, Soldier Steve—but, seriously, did I catch you at a bad time?"

He twists—his side suddenly aching, but he rolls onto his back to get a full view of nothing but the cloudy blue-black ceiling, layered with tiny bits of circular shadows from the snow outside his window. "I think I fell asleep waiting." He says absently. Then his thoughts roll over his conversation from however long before with Fury. "Or something."

"You think? You do awful lot of that, I think."

He smirks. "You think?"

"I think."

"So you haven't ever fallen asleep waiting by the phone for someone?"

She laughs—and he can so faintly recall the outline of her neck from when she's laughed before, her hair tossed backwards. "Shall I tell you the tales of my entire high school career?"

"We've got time," Steve says slowly, trying not linger over if she was waiting for another boy to call from her past, or not. But Steve can only suppose that it's just as likely he's waiting for a call from his own.

"Hah—don't worry. It's rather sort. What about you?"

He blinks, readjusting the phone. He takes a short breath. "This'd be my first time."

"Mhmmmm—" she hums, and it makes Steve feel strangely lightheaded. "But not your first time getting beat up by two women, I'd imagine?"

He tries to keep up with the conversational turn. Peggy's dark livid stare pops into his mind as she shot a good round into his shield. Another for grappling with Natasha. Another with Pepper in a seriously fueled game of Scrabble.  _Actually, you'd probably be surprised_. "Oh—my side?"

Her voice gets small. "Can I ask about it?"

"Sure you can," he says gently. "It's uh, not a pretty sight. But the Doc here says it'll be okay if I take it easy."

"Assuming you can sit still for a week?"

This earns another lower-registered chuckle from the soldier right against her ear, and it sends a chill down her spine.

"If you've somehow gotten this crazy idea that I go out and do dangerous things all the time, I don't." Steve says lowly, playfully, his voice entirely sardonic. "But I really don't know where you got such an idea from."

"You know a woman's mind—full of wild unruly ideas. Soon you'll peg me for a Feminist."

She's quick, even late at night. Steve has to consider it for a moment just how to respond. "What if I  _try_ to stay away from constantly doing dangerous things?"

She's quiet for a second. "I think you'd miss it."

He's quiet, too. The slow falling shadows dance their waltz across his ceiling. "I think you're right."

He clears his throat. "You haven't done anything dangerous before?"

Her voice gets very serious. "There was this one time I decided to meet this very strange man at a park where he had this terrible, bloody wound, but, you'd never know it because he just wanted to  _kiss_  me—didn't ask for my help at all."

Steve feels his face burning into the cool side of his pillow, wanting to hide. "And how did that end up for him?"

"I dangerously gave him my number—but I still wonder if I'll ever be as danger-seeking as him."

Steve smiles wanly against the fabric. "He'd tell you that it's not fun getting into scrapes all the time."

"Well, it's no fun being tossed into them, either." She pushes back carefully. "I'd much rather know I'm going into a dangerous place then suddenly have it thrust upon me. It's…it's sort've that debate between wanting to know the day you die, or not wanting to know because you'll be haunted by it."

He swallows thinly, his throat parched. He can practically feel her thinking about the Battle of New York— a thousand and one aliens rain from a dark hole in the sky and all you can do is  _watch._  Tastelessly, he drives for a new topic.

"So what did you do tonight?"

"Oh! Well, I spent it with Ronda. She and I adore musicals. She, um, she took me to see  _Cats_ on Broadway, although I'm pretty sure Andrew Lloyd Webber's going to put a hit on our heads, as we can't afford that ever again." _  
_  
Steve resists laughing to near hysterics. _"Cats?"_  
  
She's giggling as well. "Not much of a cat lover?"

"Not really. Or dog. I've never gotten a chance around pets much."

"Or musicals?"

This catches him off guard. He sputters a laugh for a second, but he can't take it back now. "Actually," his voice lowers, "I've been in one."

She's so silent on the other end that Steve honestly checks to see if the phone has somehow lost its connection. "No. Way."

He nods, although once again, he has to remind himself that she isn't there, unfortunately, beside him.

"Sadly."

Her voice spikes up excitedly. "Well, what was it? High school production? College?" She pauses in thought. "Does the army somehow pull a secret society of unspoken musical numbers?"

He laughs unabashedly at the idea of his  _Howling Commandos_  preforming. "I don't think you've heard of it, actually."

"Oh, going  _hipster_  on me then, Soldier Steve?"

He frowns at the term. He knows what a hipster is from his time, but obviously that word  _must_  mean something different today—because he certainly was a poor excuse for one back then, and now? Forget it. Steve just preferred being himself—even if that was clean and inept.

He clumsily tries to not let the disconnect show. "Nah, it's nothin' like that. It was a show sort've around traditional values."

"Did you sing?"

He sighs gratefully. "My one saving grace is that I didn't. I had to act, though—" a hand goes through his hair, trying to smooth it down, already nervous. "Let me tell you, Beth, I'm the lousiest actor you'll  _ever_  meet."

"You know this just means I'm going to have you see you act one day."

"Oh no. No, no, no."

"So you didn't enjoy it at all?"

He thinks about those hot days of too much stage make-up and those American Cuties that would walk by the squished back stage to rub a little too close to him so he'd haphazardly blush and they'd all sigh that he was  _as cute as a bug's ear_ —he can't say which was more bothersome. The dames or the men out there, fighting the  _rea_ l war that'd call him names he doesn't even want to recount. He thinks about the little tikes that he'd seem to impress and those soft, doe-eyed mothers that would hold their sons close and probably pray that there somehow  _was_  a real Captain America. Some kinda jolly Santa Clause type guy that would end the war and save their sons from the atrocities. That was hard, but he can't say it always bad taking the rap.

"I got called Tinkerbell a lot." He begins. "But I did get to punch Adolf Hitler in the face over 500 times."  _And I nearly got to punch the real one, too, if he didn't take the cowards way out_ , he digresses spitefully.

" _500_  times?" She's trying not to laugh, and it shows, but it's sweet that she is trying to not mock his dignity. "I'm jealous! I can't think of a single person that wouldn't love doing that."

Steve laughs softly. "It paid the bills until the army finally picked me up. So I guess things really do happen for a reason."

She laughs too, matching his tone, and for a second, it's like he can just hear her quietly breathing through the phone—somehow, blocks and blocks and blocks from here. Never, in all his days, could he imagine it being this…easy.

"Beth?" he asks suddenly, his heart picking up its pace.

"Yes?" She breathes, and he can imagine her laying close to him, his arm around her, and its fine. He doesn't feel like he has to pretend to be something he's not. He's just figuring it out as he goes along.

"This, uh, may sound silly. What I'm about to ask you." He pauses. "Promise you won't laugh?"

"I promise."

He grins with his eyes shut. "You don't even know what I'm gonna ask."

"That's fine by me."

He slowly drags a hand to hold against his side, and he feels more at ease. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah."

"Is that the question?"

"No," he says quickly. "Just uh." He blows out some air, takes a breath. "Would you…uhm…go steady with me?"

A heartbeat. Another. Another. Another. It's crawling into his heart to pulse behind his eyes. It's inside of his thumbs. It's racing to ache out his wound.

"That would be wonderful," Beth says softly, a near whisper to anyone else, but to Steve it's loud and clear.

He sighs out, long and exhausted, head sinking into the pillow. Thank God that's over.

Her voice  _feels_  warm, if that's even possible. "Take a lot out of you?"

"Killin' me," Steve mutters back.

"May I ask something of you, then?" She requests slowly.

He feels so comfortable that she could ask him to do much of anything, and he would. "Mm?"

"Tomorrow…who do I get to meet…?"

Oh. That. Steve thinks for a moment. He opens his eyes as if that would help him any better. "I'm gonna go a-head, take a guess, and say Natasha."

Beth's knees curl into her stomach nervously. She'd hoped that she wouldn't have to see Natasha again for a long time. "But I already met Natasha," she protests vainly. "I was hoping…anyone else?"

Something shines from the crack in Steve's closet, nearly right into his eyes. It hurts. He'll have to get up and close it.

"Well, I don't mean just Natasha," He can hear the quake in her voice. "I swear, Nat is actually a," 'Nice' isn't exactly the word. He tries another. "...loyal person, once you get to know her."

"I sure hope so, Steve. Maybe she'd take this as a compliment, but she can be terrifying. But that only shows how deeply she cares about you."

"I think she would,"

Steve presses a hand carefully into the halfway open door of his closet. It pulls open effortlessly as the dim shining pattern before the soldier emerges. It's his suit—but yet it's not. It's grey. And dull. And entirely S.H.E.I.L.D. There is a star, but there is no Captain America embedded on the chest before him. It's his new look. His new life as a protector of American 21st century values.

"Anyone else?" She prods.

He reaches out the touch the fabric, entirely too slick and too clandestine between his fingers. It's all wrong, but he isn't sure how to make it right again, either.

"Yeah," He says, trying not to let his voice get too cold. "It'll be fine."

Beth's tone shrinks back, confused. "Fine?"

He blinks, snapping back to the question. He lets go. "No, I'm sorry. I'm—it's late. I meant you'll also be meeting Jane—and her friend—her name escapes me right now."

The round rusting tins of his shoe polish stare up at him, mournfully, from his feet, heavy with his black and white photos and better-drawn pictures. He tries not to look down, or the floor will start spiraling.

"Right, right. I'm sorry, Steve, I shouldn't be twenty-questioning you right now. I just get…really worried about meeting new people…new things, even," Beth admits, a little dejectedly.

"I can relate," Steve agrees, loudly shutting the closet door and making his way back towards his bed. He sprawls across it with a long, deep sigh.

"Comfy?" She asks, that small smile in her voice.

"Very." His side doesn't even smart anymore, but maybe he's just that tired. Today has been too long of a day.

"I know that we've met through crazy means, but…I'm really happy you're here."

_I'm really happy you're here._  Steve lets his eyes close, the phrase running through his head.

"You don't know how much that means to me," he tells her with a yawn.

She giggles. "Will I get to see you possibly? Tomorrow?"

"Definitely," Steve says, willing the promise to be true. "But I just hope I can get you alone and away from the rest of the gals. It'll be challenge."

Her heart skips with the way he's said 'alone'. "I think I'm the one with the challenge. Your challenge is not to hurt your poor side anymore. Okay?"

He snickers, muffled by the pillow. "Okay."

"I'm going to take all the danger in for you this week. It'll be good for me." She pauses, unsure. "I think."

Steve could stay listening to her ramble forever. "You think?" He murmurs sleepily.

"I think."

They're quiet for a long time—almost to the point where Beth's certain he's asleep.

"Good night, Steve," she whispers—and there's a faint click.

The click rumbles loudly in his ear—he jerks up and looks around, almost like a ghost has decided to pass through him. He's cold. Blindly, he pulls at the sheets and dives back into the warmth he's created. The dial tone pesters at his head, and quickly he picks up his cell. For a moment, he isn't sure why it's there—somewhere lost between the last time he's called Peggy, or Beth, or… _Beth._

"Good night," he says belatedly—but she's already gone.

 


	27. Grand Gestures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Steve makes himself the most awkward man out of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN:...AND WE'VE GOT A LIVE ONE, FOLKS. Part 1 of 3. Another update coming in a few days.
> 
> Also I just now realised as I post this chapter that having this thing in the middle of Stark Tower probably sounds extremely out of place to those readers that don't catch all the films (which is fine, by the way). You can fear no longer because it is from Iron Man 3. Seriously. There, I just saved you like, what, 130 minutes of a (imho) not so great movie with a ton of fun scenes and overwhelming potential that went nowhere?
> 
> You're welcome.

 

* * *

Powdery snow laid itself silently over the heads of the earth bound men. Where they lay their burdens down mattered not in name, but in pose: arms crossed, their skin frozen, their teeth grim and cold. For miles upon miles the road stretched out, empty and frozen, running and skating the distance between Civil and World War One until it was a blur between trying to tell where one man began and another ended. Skinny branches on slender trees held up their tents, wracking with heavy snow. Nothing stirred. There was no one left to guard. Their service was over.

"I'm gonna be buried here, someday, you know."

A heavy hand gripped the sleeve of Steve's uniform as the voice spoke, fingertips grey and boney. A flask between them. The blond said nothing, not trusting himself to speak. The honourable grounds were perfect and clean and still. He feels like no one should speak here. He swallows, fingers burning at their tips from how long he's braced himself along the bank, woodbark eating at his worm-torn clothes. Super Soldier or not, he wasn't getting any special treatment from 43rd when they were flagging on supplies.

"If it comes to that…and I don't make it out again, will ya miss me, kid?"

Again, Steve continues to stare, taking the time to look at each smooth stone pillow. A hand messes with his hair and that finally grabs his attention. He looks at his friend, unable to make much of an expression, his cheeks sullen. He slides his palm along the ice, taps at the silver flask and can instantly hear the subtle ping of its hollowness. He doesn't mind being sober through this all. He supposes someone has to be.

His friend is more playful than annoyed, but all the same the words tumble out of his mouth in a slur of giggles that shouldn't be so loud on the wind. The dark, terrible noises thin out like a flute being played a grand distance away—maybe all the way across the edge of the cemetery, rising up and trembling down. "I _sh'aid_ , will you miss me, Rogers?"

Steve's mouth opens to a noiseless agreement, but the man wants nothing of it.

"Sheesh, I forget how quiet you get when you drink! Y'think you'd give a fella a little slack, you know? I'm not yammering my own tongue off to frostbite for buncha dead guys to have you  _ignore_  me!" A rough slap to the back of Steve's head knocks the soldier forward. "Get out of yer head, Steve! Get out of your head!"

Steve's mouth tightens so sharply he's afraid his own lips have split open from the burn of the snow. He tastes the coppery shine of a new penny resting in his mouth, liquid and golden-red. He's bleeding inside. Every swallow is a permitted toast to the dead men, his men, his father, his country, that he's barely keeping down. Beside him the other man turns and retches into the snow.

Steve watches the warmth from Bucky's own spit grave dig its way down. "See? Isn't that hard to smile, yeah? You're Goddamn war hero, buddy. Hell, you even saved me." He stretches his arms out wide, fingers reaching to bring every headstone closer and closer in mocking embrace. "And these guys are your  _glitteratis_  an' your high  _socs._ "

Steve watches the snow continue to prod lightly at their backs and he sighs. "This is the most sacred military ground in all of America, Barnes. Watch yourself."

A boney knuckle bounces lightly off of Steve's jaw, forcing him to look up. "Then you better keep lookin' up and watching, then."

Steve turns to look fully at Bucky and finds the brunet grinning like a mad man. Steve's returning smirk is a gaping hole.

"I'll always keep a look out for you. Can't have my best pal dying on me for no good reason."

Bucky chortles anyway, his face crimson from the booze, fully aware that Steve is a terrible funny man. " _Lord_ , you're a  _sap_. How they chose the likes of you to be Captain America, I'll never know."

Steve wants to shrug, but the bones in his shoulders have frozen together, forever at attention.

"Bucky." He waits until Barnes can keep a straight enough face. "You think they made the right decision?"

Bucky continues to smile, never once breaking its charm or his pride. "God couldn't have made a more potent choice than t'take the soul of a gentle man and place it into a warrior's body."

Steve involuntarily smiles even though it hurts more than his entire transformation. "But it's all so phony. I wasn't created this way. I was meant to be a stillborn, or something." Steve protests vaguely. He slides his hands down the nape of his own neck nervously, as if these dead men would tear themselves from the earth and tell him exactly what he fears. "Or somethin'."

Bucky continues to grin, flask to his lips, because he's already forgotten that it's empty.

It takes Steve nearly seven decades to realize what Bucky was actually talking about when it came to Steve's form, but he couldn't help but be distracted by the way his best friend was smiling at him. Bucky always smiled with all of his teeth, and the square, white image stays in Steve's mind long after Bucky near drank himself blind in the snow.

Steve blinks and looks out into the miles of hard, chilling graves, yet all he can see is how much they look like Bucky's smile. Perfectly straight headstones that rise themselves out into a glass glow smile that splits itself wide from ear to ear. Tree to tree. Century to century. Ashes to ashes.

Dust to dust.

* * *

He's reaching blindly out at the sunlight, still treaded wanly over his sheets, and retches forward. Sputtering rasps spill from his mouth as nothing gives, but he keeps trying to cough  _something_  up. His side burns its good morning, and sweat lines his forehead. Gasping, he claws at the first thing he gets his hands around—a blue shaded pillow—and pulls. It tears far too easily, like flesh being cut with a knife when all he wants it something to fight him back. Finally, he opens his eyes just as a rain of feathers gently cast their way down around his floor. That'll be the fourteenth pillow these last two months in total. He opens his mouth to groan at what he's done and finds that there are feathers in there as well, which he spits out with one clammy hand pressed to his face.

The clocks that guard his walls as he sleeps look down at the soldier in dismay. Steve's first instinct is to always to check the time and the date. The sluggish hour hand idly pulls itself after the cheerful minute, edging away that it's 6:54 am. He moves a hand to tap at the face of New York – Easter Standard time. He feels uneasy. He never usually questions their judgment but something seems entirely wrong about it. Different, somehow.

The closet door seems to be closing in on him, and he shudders on a new change of clothes—careful to fold his gift from Beth and lay it carefully back on his now feather-tarred bed. He keeps his eyes pointedly away from Fury's formally pressed uniform; his only means of consequence from working on his problems  _his_  way. The sparklingly gleam from the tin boxes stare up at him like the eyes of an abused puppy. Steve caves, pushes his fingers carefully through their folders until he has, in his grip, the only picture of James Barnes. From its memorial print in the newspaper back in 1943, three months after Steve's hand couldn't reach far enough to save him. The brunet is in uniform and smiling in this one— Steve finds that interesting, as Bucky took every photo of himself rather seriously when it came to military decrees.

Shame lurches over Steve. It chills his blood. He loses feeling in his knees. He can't remember what had made Bucky smile that day, and it's drowning him.

He kneels for a long time.

* * *

In the mirror he glances up at himself a few times as he splashes water over his face. It's only when he's washing his face formally that he notices sloppy, wet cloth sticking to his wrists. He blanches when he finds that his long-sleeved shirt is entirely soaked from the elbows up. He picks up a towel and gingerly presses most of his mistake away—but the dampness stays stuck to his arms, enticed to stay from the chill of the December morning. His side protests at the idea of changing a second time. He picks up his green army coat instead and pockets his only black and white of his best friend.

Although he's later than usual in his patrol of the tower he finds that no one is awake yet. He grabs the newspaper and sits down but the dazzling lights pouring from the bay-widows hurt; he has to settle for meagerly skimming the headlines. He figures this is the kind of frustration Stark must feel all the time, and it makes him smirk, if just for a moment.

It's 7:30 when he finally forces himself to check his phone. In all honesty, it's what he wanted to do right away—forget eating or looking like he hadn't woken from a sleep of the dead—but did Beth say something? Did she text him? He kept shoving the intrusive thought away for as long as he could. The last thing he needed was to be a mobile phone obsessed American.

He taps at the glass screen, trying to focus the letters and his heart skips to find that there's—

Nothing there.

He pushes the blindly blunt message away from himself, and tries not to frown around his orange juice. She, like most normal folks, was probably sleeping. Or doing anything else that wasn't sulking around a giant Tower feeling strangely bleary. He pads at his jeans pockets mindlessly, wishing he could instantly have a pen and some paper and not have to get up and walk all the way back down the empty hallway to his dexterous room with a near sleek, grey-tinted skeleton in his closet.

_Cl…cl…cl…_

He goes for the next best thing. He knocks his fingers against the cool surface of the kitchen's island, and heads back for the fridge. Stuck along it are all sorts of post—mainly letters of gratitude from fans, kids, or comics from the funny pages that mostly made Steve feel more puzzled than amused. Particularly  _The New Yorker._ One loose sleeve from a page lands off to the side, and Steve carefully tucks it back into place just before spying what it is.  
 _  
Click, click, click, click…_

It's a Rockwell print.  _Norman_ Rockwell. Steve would recognize the guy's handiwork anywhere. He didn't stick to high school for long, but in his drawing class Rockwell was praised as  _classic Americana_  before Americana was even considered a novelty. It was a painting called: _The Breakfast Table_ , and featured a fella with his nose stuck in the newspaper whilst his wife looked away, entirely aloof and longing for interaction.  
 _  
Click. Click. Click._

 _Huh_ , Steve thinks to himself. He glances at the time again on the slick microwave, the photos, and spots another with Miss Potts, Miss Foster, and friends gathered together, smiling. He shoves a hand into the pocket of his coat as if he wants to ask Bucky what to do. It all feels very out of his league for dealing with a buncha women socialites—he might only get so much time with Beth for today, and that might be only for the morning.

_Click._

A hand suddenly rests on his shoulder. Instantly he winces; a large palm slides its way down the smooth metal of the icebox—taking tiny deadlines and clippings with it. Crushed downward, Steve glances up—eyes flying to take in the robust knife set across the side of the kitchen.

A pair of steady dark green eyes take in his near cower. Steve looks down to find a pair of glinting black heels rising his target two inches off of the tile floor. He looks back up into her eyes, flushing pale, mouth open in terror and wholly unsure how to move on from this moment.

Quietly, Pepper smiles and slowly kneels down, placing her hand once again on Steve's right shoulder. Steve braces for the worst. This is just one more day he'll have to live down.

"I was thinking I'd get some orange juice this morning." Pepper says carefully. Her eyes flicker to the fridge as if that is the most exciting part of her entire morning. "Yeah. That's what I want. You want some orange juice?"

Steve swallows thinly, his heart only beginning its decent. His voice feels scratchy as he mutters out a: "Sure", although he's positive that he already has a full glass sitting at the island.

She clasps his hand in hers, sturdier and softer than he'd thought it would be, and helps him up.

Sharp as her business-suit, Steve edges himself away from the corners of her elbow as she artfully picks up glasses and a jug—as Pepper always reminded Steve of a fitted, sharp, unshakable force that couldn't possibly be laced up in a dress and told to do a single job. She was everywhere in the Tower, runnin' Stark's own company. If someone told Steve Miss Potts was going to President one day, he wouldn't have a doubt in his mind that it couldn't come true.

With her back to him, Steve finds himself sweating. There are thin strands of silver running up and down the stitches in her jacket. The buttons are a coppery-black as they jet out to the sides, waiting to be buttoned. Fleece collects at the cuffs tight along her arms as she works.

"You know," she says offhandedly. "I used to hate this stuff. It tasted awful all the time. I could never figure out why. I'd check the expiration date and everything. It wouldn't be beyond Tony to stock his fridge and not bother to ever clean it out." She turns gracefully and clicks her way to the island, handing Steve a new full glass. "But I just kept forcing myself to like it and now I find myself drinking it for lunch as well." She takes a tiny slip. "I guess preference is funny like that."

Steve swears this is the most conversation he's ever had with Miss Potts and it's about  _orange juice._  He takes a deep sip that he can't even taste, but keeps trying for the sake of biding time to think of more comments. The ice slides dangerously close to his lips as he downs the whole thing—cursing himself to not keep pace because what else could save him from talking now?

"I hope I'll start to feel that way about iced coffee."

Her tiny nose wrinkles, stirring her freckles like a shifting puzzle. "Why would you drink iced coffee in December?"

A pause.

"Uh." Steve stammers. "I lost a bet?"

"To who? Santa Claus? I think that's the only person who would drink iced coffee year round. …And he's not even real, Steve."

Steve chuckles—but for some reason it makes his throat ache. Without warning his lungs flare up and he starts coughing. He presses his face into the crook of his arm to stop from rudely coughing all over Miss Potts, but it's hard to stop.

"Are you all right?" Pepper puts down her drink. "Steve?"

"Fine," Steve forces out, but his voice falters.

He can feel Pepper's eyes judging him all over. "…All things considered, you probably are sick."

The fit seems to ease as Steve sucks in a breath of surprise. "That's absurd."

"But not impossible," Pepper tosses right back at him. "Everyone told me what happened Steve. You laid in the freezing snow for a very long time with just a shirt and some jeans. Lots of blood loss. Lack of sleep." She tilts her head at him with narrowed eyes. "Still lack of sleep."

Steve's heart sinks at the idea of everyone talking about him so distinctly. Face first down in the snow, practically naked in all manner of the word. When they took him in for the transformation, he was issued reports on how he'd never be ill again.  _Ever_  again. And to a frail boy in Brooklyn, that was the best Christmas gift of them all.

"How's the side?" She inquires.

"It's holding up okay. It's closed up. Healing. It's just you know—there." Steve rushes to defend himself a little too quickly for Pepper's liking.

He touches a hand faintly over his side, holding it in. It feels better that way. And there's no way anyone else is going to take his clothes again. Natasha, Thor, Tony, Bruce had all see his terrible wound. He's burning up at the idea of Beth possibly asking to see it, too.

"Here. Sit down." Pepper orders. The tweed of her business jacket square off the stubbornness of her posture.

Unsure of what is to come, Steve finds himself balancing anxiously on the island stool. When the red-head turns her freckles twinkle around briefly in an exercise of disbelief along her cheeks. Steve continues to look at her perplexingly.

"Is something the matter, Miss Potts?"

"Oh Steve, really. It's Pepper. Just Pepper. And yes." Her gaze lapses coolly over his own. "I'm just not used to this being so…easy."

"Oh, heh," Steve drops his gaze. He can only barely imagine how many times Pepper's had to deal with Tony, childish as he can be, arrogantly abandoning all manner of accepting care. It's the least Steve can do to just sit still and shut up.

"Well, it's certainly kind of you to be concerned." He scratches nervously at his neck. "Uh. With you always being so busy…and all."

Her entire frame stills from her workaholic, clockwork body that made sure every swing of her limbs are a movement unwasted. Green eyes look at him sternly. "…I was worried, too, Steve." Steve's acute hearing picks up a loud, strange, crinkling noise that chimes from her locked hands. Her thin fingers tighten over something plastic in her grasp. "I don't have superpowers, but I like to help when I can."

Steve rubs at his arm sorely. This is the most conversation he's had with Miss Potts and it's consisted of cowering, orange juice, rehashing his 'episode', and  _feelings_. What he wouldn't give to be able to turn invisible.

Suddenly she's closer—Steve can smell the waft of perfume on her skin—something lavender and… oily, almost. The blond clears his throat carefully.

"What is that?"

She holds up a white plastic handle with a sort've cone end. "It's a thermometer."

His eyes go a bit wide in concern. "I don't recall thermometers  _ever_  looking like that."

The faintly glowing embers of her hair collect at the nape of her neck as she laughs, falling out of a tight ponytail. "Oh my God! I am so sorry! You'll….I forget, sometimes, you know? About." Her lips purse as she stops, her tone changing to a dribbling, airy logic. "Well don't worry! This won't hurt. And it goes in your ear."

Steve's frown is 75 percent made of apprehension and 25 percent frank frowning. "You're pullin' my chain."

Her lipstick is Christmas time ruby red that Steve has trouble looking at because no one has worn red lipstick as well as Peggy and no one will ever again. He feels bad for even making such a comment in the silence of his own mind.

"Not even a little," Pepper coaxes. That same hand on his shoulder, another to push back his hair from his ear. Her fingertips are freezing on his skin. He can't help but pull slightly away. "May I?"

He really has no idea what he's agreeing to. "Yes?"

The cone device is gently pressed inside of his ear, and he nearly expects to be electrified again. It's numbing and chilly—and a quiet beep rings out. Pepper expertly flicks at the plastic, tossing something along the counter.

"Yeah—I was right, Steve. 100 degrees and rising. Congratulations on catching your first bug in the last 80 years."

"70," Steve corrects scratchily. There is a bit of an awkward pause between them. "It's…it's only been 70."

Heaven  _forbid_  he be any later than he already is. Miss Potts or no, Steve hopes she doesn't just go around saying stuff like that. It makes him feel so blue. "…but thanks for letting me know."

Pepper's fingers tap along the top of the plastic thermometer. "…so, where do you plan on going?"

He glances at her bright green eyes. "I'm going somewhere?"

"Well, sick or not, you're not going to hang around here, are you?"

"I….I ought to stay, I think. I mean. I don't want to be around here like this. I'd rather be—"

"With Beth?"

He cringes at her name. Now everyone officially knew it. "—out."

"I can't wait to meet her, you know."

Steve can't stand how he's blushing. "That's nice of you to say."

"I'm a little jealous that Natasha already has, but she won't give up any gossip, so. Now Jane and Darcy, too? Sometimes it really sucks running a multibillion dollar company. But I guess the breaks aren't bad." She smiles. "I get to go to Paris today. I'll certainly be seeing her soon or later." Pepper turns carefully on her heel to put the thermometer away in the cabinet.

"Now…it's pretty darn early. And we're the only ones awake. I have to leave for my flight soon, but if you promise not to stay out long, and take the subway— _not_  your motorcycle—maybe I won't say we had this conversation about you leaving to take Beth to breakfast. Because, well, if Bruce's orders can't keep you lying down, I don't know what will. Maybe she'll talk some sense into you."

Steve looks slowly at her, his blush fading into realization. "How did you know I wanted to take her to breakfast?"

Pepper honest to God _winks_  at him, flexing her shoulder blades in a coy shrug, and looking so sly about herself that Steve could understand how Stark fell for a woman that could beat him so thoroughly in cleverness and style. "Call it a woman's intuition."

Steve folds his arms over his chest. "I'm calling your bluff."

"I won't say anything. I was just here, drinking orange juice and— _OH MY GOD!"_

Steve lurches around to spot where she's gaping.

There is a rabbit staring at him from the entrance of the living room. A rabbit that is disturbingly tall and rather large and most definitely not breathing. Steve blinks at it, trying to will the animal away. Its round eyes stare back at him relentlessly, and, refusing to lose the contest, Steve dimly feels for the light in the kitchen, tinted with icy chill from December in New York City. The rabbit's cheerfully tied bow catches the light, and he turns back to Pepper to make sure she's seeing it as well. He tries not to put too much thought into why it's there. Mainly, he's just happy he's not hallucinating. ...At least not anymore. Seeing a large stuffed rabbit is better than the ghost of Bucky Barnes any day.

"Is…is that a rabbit?" Steve turns again. "That's…you see that too, right? Please tell me you see it."

A hand presses to her forehead with strands of embers sticking out from in between her fingers. "Oh my God," She repeats again with exasperation. "Oh my God."

Steve studies her carefully before he starts coughing once more. "Are—are you okay?"

"Fine." Pepper says instantly. She runs her fingers back down her sides to smooth the fabric. "I'm fine."

"Y'think that woke anyone up?"

"I doubt it." A pause. She sighs. "I just…I doubt it."

"What's that even doing here? A Christmas present? It's…huge."

"Of  _course_  it is. It's from Tony. Oh God." A finger prods at her lips in distress. "I am going to  _kill_  him."

"It's—it seems like a gesture." Steve takes a weary attempt at defending Stark. Another look at the bunny. "It's, uh, a grand gesture."

"… It's a gesture all right." Pepper agrees darkly.

Steve swallows to no relief. "Uh—well, anyway…thank you, for what you said you'd do. Cover for me. That's—"

"I still mean it." Pepper steadies out her smile again, like it's balanced on the end of one of those sharp culinary knifes that Steve thought he'd use earlier for defense It seems perfectly rehearsed in Steve's eyes. Libel to fall either way.

"So…so I should go?"

"Yeah. Don't let that rabbit thing scare you. Knowing Jane, this might be your only shot for today."

He chuckles although it feels like gravel in his throat. "Miss Potts—"

 _"Pepper."_  
  
"Pepper," Steve repeats forcefully. "Thank you."

He gets up to wash his mug but the room suddenly feels so cold and large with Miss Potts just standing there, hand still pressed over her mouth, staring into the dark. The image eats at the back of Steve's brain. He wishes he knew what to say to give her some kind of comfort—but he can't begin by starting off that he's heard her cry at night and that he might understand what that feels like. He practices opening his mouth a few times—but it's strikingly clear that there aren't words for what Pepper needs to hear, and if there were, they can't come from the soldier.

Pepper slowly spies Steve still standing there and she lowers her hand.

"Steve, before you go?

"Yes?"

Her eyes seem a haunting jade in the dawn light. "I just wanted to say thank you, too."

"Uhm," Steve trips over the sudden gratitude. "—for?"

"Strangling Tony."

* * *

He wants to call Beth, but for some unfathomable reason some of the numerical buttons have been pushed in far too hard and can't be darned to respond.

And then he remembers the miracle of speed dial.

And then he remembers that he has no idea what's he going to say, clams up, and hangs up.

His motorcycle is covered in frost from its storage time in Tony's underground garage. He diligently waits for Pepper's heels to click out the door before her revs it up. He didn't want to be around much of anyone today, and preferably not on a subway train. He could handle a trip to Beth's. Breakfast can't possibly be so dangerous.

There is a quiet knock at her door. The plump, holly-wreath fixes Steve with fake-cranberry eyes of judgment. A quiet voice in the back of Steve's head, which he's labeled 'Reason', is telling him that this is a bad idea with a view from right now to next Sunday.

It takes a couple of hard knocks—each one causing the soldier to reconsider just pretending like the idea never happened—when tiny internal sounds of locks under wood trickle from the apartment. He spots a groggy blue eye squinting out from a peep hole. The door rattles for a second, and shudders its way open.

Beth's hair is a disaster that is plastered to her cheeks and neck like poorly sewn scarf. She has pyjama bottoms with tiny silver bells and candy-canes—a golden button is missing from around the top of her V-neck shirt. He focuses on her face to catch the fading outlines of a pillow cover etched into the soft skin of her cheek. She carefully looks at Steve as if she's expecting him to blow away in the winter wind.

And Steve just smiles at her being there in front of him like an idiot.

"Steve?"

Instantly, Steve finds himself talking very,  _very_  fast. "So, it just now dawned on me that you probably don't get up this early. But uh, I was wondering, since today you'd be pretty busy with the rest of the gals, if you'd like to go have breakfast with me?"

The wooden darkness of her door cracks open only a little bit more. "Wha…you…you could've…called?"

Steve tries to be cool about avoiding what a rational 21st century human being would have done.

"And miss you in your candy-canes?"

Her blush is outrageously and stunningly dark with the snow leering into her living room. " _Funny._  I wouldn't have said no, either way—"Suddenly, her eyes swoop to a particular motorcycle next to the stairwell. "…You totally lost your challenge."

"I—what?"

"Riding your motorcycle here at 8 in the morning is dangerous. Did you not notice the black ice slicks around Park Ave?"

"How so? That's not fair at all!"

She hugs herself and inches back inside. "It's  _freezing_  out. Wind-crazy all over the place? Unless you really like food, I'm gonna go ahead and say you did."

Steve sighs outwards playfully. He begins to say: "Well, I  _do_  like food—" but that turns into a cough rather quick—his side suddenly thinks its purpose in life is to bring him down—but the soldier refuses to double over. From between fits, Steve can see Beth's lips teeter from smug smirk to concerned pout. It'd be quite fetching if he wasn't in so much suffocating pain.

"You rode all the way here sick?"

He grasps one of the sharp arrow-pointed black decor around her stoop for support. "It's really not as bad as it seems."

"You're sweating." She deadpans. "It's like -10 degrees outside."

Another one of his slightly bewilderingly out of place, yet endearing over-the-top expressions. She honestly can't tell if he's kidding or if he's deadly serious.

"It  _is?"_

Now it's Beth's turn to sigh. "Your badassery knows no bounds." She reaches out for his hand. "Get in here."

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: By the by, Beth was kidding about it being -10 degrees outside. It's more like below zero at best.
> 
> Ha.
> 
> Ha.
> 
> Part 2 comin' up fast!
> 
> AN 2: Beth and Steve adorableness up next. Also plot because dat photograph is going places.
> 
> Sidenote: THANK YOU SO. FREAKING MUCH. FOR THE ALL THE SUPPORT AND LOVE I JUST CRY AT NIGHT IN HAPPINESS AND JUST UGH I CAN"T YOU GUYS I JUST CAN'T. Seriously. Thank you. Reviews mean THE WORLD and greatly let me know if I'm on track and just ahhhh. A grand ol' shoutout to "Call Me Secret". My jaw just dropped at your review. And to "Gi Gi" as well! AND RENEE Just wow. Thank you. I am so…so honoured. Thank you. Thank you SO ALL so much. I'd sent you both private messages, but I can't, ya darn anons! *shakes fists at the sky* So I have to thank you toeveryone through here.
> 
> So really. You ALL make my holidays. Thank you. Thank you. *dies*
> 
> **For location and pictures relating to where Bucky and Steve were, check out: Arlington National Cemetery.


	28. Chapter 28

* * *

The cool kick of an air-conditioning rumbling on to warm the apartment greets Steve's body as he walks into her living room. The next is the intense bombardment of the state of her living room. It could be summed up in just one word: Unexpected.

Toy nut crackers in a line from fattest to thinnest. A pine scented candle. Shiny wrapped boxes with ornate satin bows. Dark forest greens, blistering scarlet reds, shades of white and blues draped along the furniture. There was even the smallest tree Steve had ever seen sitting on a stand on a stool to the left of him by the door. Sure, it wasn't the extravagance of Tony's Tower, but there was something oddly familiar about the old sewed blankets and tinsel and pine needles drooping into the carpet at his feet that made him smile.

" _Wow_. In dime, in for a dollar, I'd say."

Beth pauses at the door. She's had to have heard him wrong.  _Do people even say that?_  She thinks to herself curiously.

"Excuse me?"

He motions to all of her apartment.

"Your home. It's much…more festive than I remember." He braces against the smooth wood of the front door rather awkwardly. "Although, granted, I wasn't in the best shape to be a furnishings critic."

"Y'know, I always say that food take precedence over fashion any day. I mean really, it was chocolate muffins, or it was death."

He grins. "McDonald's was really good for my first time there."

"Better make it your last if you hope to—" She stops herself flatly.

"What was that?"

"Um," She filters. She can't even joke about how ridiculously in shape Steve is. Now that he has mentioned dimes, she's pretty sure she could use them to bounce a few off of his abs. And, just to spite her,  _somehow_ , it really,  _really_  subtlety shows with how he's just wearing a plain, almost dated, kind of sweater.  _Great. Now and you're blushing, you freak. The last then he needs is you aiming more things at him—first his side with Ronda—now you and solid round coins._

She does not sprint for a diversion. She _leaps_  for it. "Do you not celebrate Christmas? I'm so sorry if that's too—much?"

This brings his smile back. "Never with such incredible details—I mean, just look at that tree! It's so  _tiny._ "

"It's an _apartment_  tree!" Beth defends sharply.

"May I take a closer look at it?"

A hand scratches at her hair, feeling the lingering of sticky hairspray. She's so unprepared for Steve to just be here. She's not even sure how to go about entertaining someone that wasn't staying for more than a night—next to Ronda, who mostly entertained herself. "Sure—I'm gonna go make us hot chocolate."

The softly shimmering tree rhythmically turns itself on a small round platform. Steve has to wait a few turns to catch a view of all the intricate paper-towns and people and figures on every branch. It's almost like a map of some sort—but Steve has trouble keeping up with all the spots. The locations seem so foreign to his tongue. He glances at her bookshelf in the corner, and suddenly feels so absolutely self-conscious about his own merger education beyond the military. And drawing cartoons for the Sunday paper. On a tiny branch, Steve notices a familiar pattern. Green. Purple. Red. A little paper Hulk holding onto a pine for dear life. Quizzically, Steve searches to find a Santa Hatted Iron Man, some thin lil' guy with some kinda bug on his chest—it's far too undetailed for even Steve's eyes to process—and a hammer that had cracked open his ribs like his bones were made of eggshells.

He can hear her gentle sock-y footsteps before she's even in the room. He straightens so that he doesn't even allow talking to her with his back turned. "It's so…unique."

The bottoms of the mugs hit the table with a  _thump._  "That's a word for it."

He runs a finger faintly over the eye of a circular, red, white and blue shield, hidden deeper than the others. It's not nearly as artistically constructed as the other paper crafts. The circles are not proportioned. The shading in for the glinting light is coming from the wrong direction. It looks slightly bent to the side. His heart picks up its pace in a nervous gallop.

"Did you make all of these?"

She suddenly dissolves into a fit of laughter. "Ronda did. She made mine and I made her ornaments on her tree. We can't afford actual ones—and my folks claim that they get complete dibs on the families' back in Oklahoma. I can barely hold a crayon straight. She's a budding 'street artist"." Steve watches Beth make rabbit ears with her fingers and flex them up and down over 'street artist'. "She's so great with her work—it's just sort've small scale. She'd make a killing if she did necklaces."

His eyes jolt back to the locations and mini-maps. "And the clippings?"

"Oh." Her voice seems taken-a-back. "You noticed those? Wow. Um. Okay. Well, those are where my brother has been located—he's in the army, I don't know if you recall me telling you that."

Steve feels like a thin metal rob has been struck to his side— he wants to crumble. He never had the civilian experience for waiting for a sibling to come home—just his dad. And when that never happened, the world might've well gone to flames. The tiny pieces of paper suddenly seem so old. So much like Aesop's Fables going up in black, lifeless ashes.

"How long has he been gone?"

"It'll be two or three years this new year," Beth flusters uncomfortably. "Please sit down."

He eases down, unsure of how much distance is needed between them, before he settles for the middle cushion, with Beth leaning off the edge of the cushion with an actual arm.

She clears her throat. "Would you like a tissue? Your nose. It's all red. Natasha mentioned that you'd probably be sick—and yet you're outside in the freezing wind riding a motorcycle."

"My—?" Steve begins tactfully. He almost wants to cover his nose. "No—I'm not trying to make anything worse. Or upset Nat. I promise, I just get antsy about this whole ordeal. It um, really means a lot that my friends are so interested in you, but I want to spend time with you too, and it just made me realise that this could be it for the morning."

"You really don't like being doted on, do you?"

"It's not being guarded that bugs me. I just don't want to be rude."

She sits up straight—Steve knows she's going for a tissue box. "What if I told you that sniffling and sneezing and coughing was all part of being sick?"

Steve chuckles scratchily, fingers uncomfortably tight around the mug. The mug itself has a cheerful looking snowman on it, and he's careful to not even touch the fake painted frost along the edge.

"No, really!" Beth buffets busily, checking her cabinets for a box. "How long has it been since you've so much as had a case of the sniffles?"

Steve feels the weight of the mug in his hand dragging noticeably heavier, vaguely aiming its way downward towards the center of his lap. He clears his throat uncomfortably.

"Oh…you know…a while."

She plops down beside him with a tissue in hand. This time she's much,  _much_  closer than even he had insisted before. "You're so oddly mysterious for someone so completely genuine."

More laughter—his lungs are so powerful that she can feel the cushion shake under her flannel leggings. "Is that so? I always thought I was one of those clear bells, you know? A…real open book."

Beth's delightful eyes glance at him in slight daring amusement. A long finger carefully prods him just above his ribcage through the mesh of his sweater—it almost tickles. Unsure of how to respond, Steve blushes at her easiness to touch him. Beth's grin is insidious, and Steve waits for something bad to happen. Because that's usually what happens when he starts beaming.

"What?" He asks her, desperately pushing the self-conscious nudge out of his voice.

A hand balances her chin carefully. "Mm—I'd say more so an open wound?"

Another question to see his side. Steve flushes deeper. "Hey! Teasin' a guy when he's down isn't fair." He takes the tissue just for something to block her eyes with.

"Is that a feather?"

Steve reels internally. A feather  _would_  be his downfall.

She lithely reaches over and gently pulls a dangling white tuff from Steve's hair like a proper magician. "Dare I even ask?"

Steve opens his mouth for a witty retort. He's got nothing. The gentle waves of her hair are slowly peeling themselves from her skin, catching onto the cool, dampness of Steve's long-sleeved shirt, lacing it golden and blue.

"Seriously. You're frowning really hard about something. That's  _begging_  for me to ask you."

He looks at her from the corner of his eyes, straightens his mouth, and sighs. A hand gestures out in front of him, pretending to hold on to his ability save face. "See, if I had a beer, I would just drink it. Right now. And not stop."

"D'you wanna beer at 8 in the morning?"

"Can't say it doesn't sound like a bad idea."

"You don't strike me as a drinker—Wait—" Her hand reaches out and lays itself on his arm firmly. He can feel the flush from her fingers soaking through the tough stitches in his sleeves as it she's stroking hot coals for a fire. "It only took you, like, two beers, right? When you were younger?" She says softly, lingering over the fragileness of all he had told her that night.

"To get drunk, yeah—" Steve corrects his stare from her hand.  _It isn't too big of a deal—right?_  Steve staggers through his thoughts _. I mean, this is what going with a gal is like. Heck, we've already slept_ next  _to each other_ —he tries to chuckle at his own inside joke, but it makes his teeth feel sore as memories collide together before him. There were more than enough times that Bucky tangled his own ribcage together from laughing so hard at Steve dry-heaving across a shady, busted up, speak-easy. "I really couldn't hold my liquor well, either."

"Couldn't? You should meet my brother, holy God, talk about someone that shouldn't be allowed to drink."

Steve's mouth twitches at the thought of Stark. "I've got a pal that needs that title as well."

"And what's his name?"

Steve swallows drily with how close he was to just blurting out 'Stark'.  _Boy. Talk about tactless, Rogers_. "I really wouldn't like to say."

"A military musical pac and now a drinking pac, too? Don't tell me your job is also full of boxing secrets?" She leans towards him, her eyes bright with intrigue. "Give me a break!"

 _My job?_ His eyes spark wide.  _My job. Professional boxing trainer—of course. It's perfect_.  _Saved your stupid self a mess of trouble, didn't you, kid?_  He can nearly hear Bucky writing him off.

"Actually—it's just kind've hard to talk about." Steve begins, the words rolling off his tongue, tasting strangely starchy—an uncanny, bitter-sweet flavor at the idea of lying while basically telling her the truth. "I've got a lot of legal obligations and contracts to keep about whom I train. Sort've…" He raises his eyebrows for a hint. "Well, you get the idea."

Beth's expression is beyond bewilderment. She lays a hand on his shoulder for support. "Famous? You train fucking  _famous_  people?"

He flitches at how easily she swears. He doesn't think he'll ever get used to women just doing that without the slightest of hesitation. It made sense being around nothing but military dogs in the Rank. It was basically the universal language of war, but with such intelligent blue eyes and that endearing smile of hers, it didn't seem right.

"Famous people," she repeats again, just for the taste of it. "…And I'm just a decent waitress."

She slumps against the cushions as Steve tries to shake off her strangely outraged look—a complete wreck of bedhead and hot chocolate and lots of blinking as she just studies him. She places both her hands to either side of her face to block his open attempt at peek at her. For a moment, she sighs loudly thorough her nose—and then she giggles.

"Sorry, I just had to mentally revaluate my life choices for a second."

He smiles, although he's pretty sure that's the worst thing to do, but she looks so distraught that it makes the cheery over-zealous atmosphere of the tinseled strained Christmas tree in her apartment juxtapose her in every way. It's really quite adorable. He shifts closer, the movement practically bumping her upwards from his strength, before lowering her back down. He secretly hates when he does that. At the Tower it was as if he was perpetually showing off when really he'd just forget himself. Here, it was distortedly detached, as if he was watching this well-built guy move whilst the ghost of 90 pound Steve Rogers looked on in horror.

Thankfully, she doesn't seem too keen to how close he's forcing himself to get. He just hates that he's making her feel bad and he hasn't even introduced her Tony. The anxiety inside of his body has sharp teeth that gnaw words into the lining _: it can only go down from here_  as it eats at the bottom of his stomach.

"I—I'm sorry if I just dropped that on you too quickly. It's just—it's, uh."

She slowly lowers her hands. "…I'm pretty sure most of those choices end with pockets full of pennies that I swiped from Ronda." Her gaze steels over Steve's floundering apology and his mouth snaps shut. "I've found where I went wrong." Her smile is brighter than the top of her tree. "I can just blame Ron for everything. Perfect."

Steve laughs, but his side pricks at the mention of the gal with metal in her nose, which is just one more thing Steve doesn't understand, not just women, but Joes that pierce themselves as well. "Well, what did you want to do—before your calling came to serve the public?"

She fakes wounded pride. "I basically wanted to be a doctor." Her smile is pallid. "I wanted a life a little like an episode of  _Scrubs_ , you know? It just seemed so…full of  _meaning."_

"Sure," Steve agrees, taking note that he should ask about whatever production she must be talking about. If it makes her want to take after such a steely profession, he imagines it has to be rather intense. Then she sighs, and Steve's smile breaks off into tiny pieces that settle into a frown. "Wanted?"

"Heh," she glances away again, and Steve follows her line of sight to the bookshelf. "Yeah. When I was in college. Before the…" She takes a breath, speeds up her words. She forces herself to not stare back at Steve's hidden wound. "When I was able to look at blood and not black out."

Steve can feel the thorns he's trying to move his words through—puncturing the gesture with blatant caring that she's probably heard a thousand times before that has just turned into a rosy garden of blanket statement compassion. She's buried herself too deep into the roots to feel anything close to elation. Steve understands entirely. It's all just like he's heard a thousand times before. "So… maybe you couldn't be a surgeon—just, something else like it. I can't say I'm too keen on the types, but I know there's other ways you could help a cause."

He can't believe he's nearly giving her the same speech that stooped down to spin him away from joining the army _. …Collecting charred, alienated bodies in his little red wagon._

"Oh, I know," she says, her voice taking on that too-high quality that hurts his own ears. "I'm looking into it." She steals at glance at him shyly. "Slowly. I'm trying to warm up to looking into the brain. Maybe working with the elderly for Alzheimer's. Memories. Aging. Psychology, I guess."

Steve forces himself to get her attention. He takes her hand, expecting the searing end of a hot stove—but she still feels as warm as he recalled her to be to his touch. Surprised, she nearly pulls away, only to realise that it's one of the few times the soldier has moved to touch her. She gives him her full attention.

The words are hard, burning icicles he's holding in his mouth. They're splitting his lips, stabbing through his gums. He nearly wants to tell her that she could still become that doctor she wants—with time, and patience, and depression, and finally, possibly, therapy. He wants to spit it out. Everyone has shoved the idea of something being amiss for so long. Steve knows something is wrong with him—as much as he doesn't want to go talk to some quack about it. But… _with_  Beth. If she was there…maybe. It's so close. He just can't shove the words from between his teeth, and she's  _waiting_  for him—waiting for him like Peggy waited for him. He can't believe that he's suggesting  _therapy_ around  _Christmas time_  in front of her sublime, miniature Christmas tree while she's wrapped in  _candy-cane pyjamas_.

He can't do it. He retreats. He's a coward. He swallows the ice down and it  _hurts like bloody hell._  He knows he's feeding that monstrous thing inside of him that makes him scream at night, scream the black air, freefalling into snow and nothingness. He can see it in her eyes at well, and he only prays that she will still bother to wait around for him like no one else seems could do.

"I think working with those who need it most," he taps the side of his own head, "right here, is a great place to start." His voice goes unexpectantly hoarse. Sitting here with Beth has made him forget that he's actually ill for the first time in over 70 years. "I won't go into the details if ya don't want, but I ha— _have_ fellas that couldn't function after what they had to do."

She slowly smiles again, but it's dampened. It's like a punch to his gut that it's not what she wanted to hear—even if it's the same lie that Steve was told from his own father about accepting yourself.

"Your voice—I'm sorry," she smirks. "I shouldn't be expecting you to talk so much. I'll get you some cough medicine okay?"

Steve frowns. "That's too kind, really, it isn't—"

She tilts her head almost like a dog, and her light blue eyes are so intense that he has to force himself to stare back at her. Her smile gets even wider. Steve finds himself frowning harder in confusion.

"You're surprisingly cute when you frown."

He flushes.  _Give her a compliment, Rogers. You've only thought them to yourself ten-thousand times._  "I think your hair looks very adorable when it's messed up."

He nearly cringes; he's caught between wondering if that was a compliment ending in an insult, or an insult wrapped in a compliment.

A hand jumps to the top of her head, pushing it down, but her other hand, wrapped in his, squeezes back in acceptance.

"So. About your friend you said you couldn't mention. Will I ever get to meet him?"

Steve feels like he's balancing so many things at once—it has to give. "Probably. He's doesn't really care for rules much anyhow."

"Sounds like Ronda."

Steve allows himself to agree only internally. He moves a freehand to touch at his side, but finds paper between his fingers. Bucky. He softens by gazing at the paper on the slowly turning tree.

Her brows narrow sharply, cutting into the soft features of her face. "Did he serve?" One of her fingers moves back and forth along Steve's arm relaxingly for an excuse for Beth not to look him in the eyes. "Like the one you mentioned on the pier?"

"No—No, I told you his name—er—Gosh, that seems like a forever ago, doesn't it?"

Beth shifts, pulling her legs up into the couch, and soon a bright ribboned bow on a candy-cane is touching his thigh. "Yeah." Her voice gets quiet. "It really does."

Silence.

Her fingers stop moving along his arm. Steve watches Beth looks around her own living room as if she's never seen it before, or is regretting not building a direct emergency exit dead ahead of them with a shiny star painted on the door. His palms sweat.

"…I can't remember his name."

Steve snaps to her attention as she speaks. The words are soft and sad, meaningful, and she didn't even know James Barnes. Her eyes are shiny, reflective of a sapphire crystal that is hanging off of her tiny Christmas tree. Steve wishes he knew what to do to make her feel better, but the words fall like slabs of stone into his shoulders and he can't move. He couldn't remember why Bucky had smiled for that photo. He couldn't remember why Bucky had to die. He couldn't remember why he was chosen to be Captain America. Losing a name in three days was  _nothing_. If only he could tell her that. Everyone forgets names—it's the memory of being with someone that can't be found again.

Steve leans back against the cushions to study the ceiling as the quiet rolls by.

"Slowly." He begins. Then he stops. "Every passing day." His eyes close. "I can't remember much about him, either."

Steve can sense that she's pulling up tighter without even looking at her. It's like some thin red string is being tied around his tongue, forcing him not leave it at this, but he doesn't know what to say—but she's tugging, tugging, tugging at him to  _try_  by just breathing. Carefully, he sets the mug down and twists it around until the happily, bumbling snow-man is winking at them both from beyond dark, round eyes.

He turns to face her, pulls up his own knee onto the couch and focuses on not sweating through his existence. Clumsily, he extends his arms out to her.

All this time Beth eyes him with a perplexing scowl. "Steve?"

And then he moves, gingerly, across the short distance to wrap his arms around her. He's perfectly aware of his strength this time as his fingers close over her upper arms. She could weigh less than a 4th of a sack of potatoes, he can't even  _tell—_ but her hair smells like the blackberry stains that would paint his skin as a kid after he'd climb Mr. Flanagan's wooden fence and steal a handful from his shipping creates.

Beth finds herself suddenly pulled against Steve's chest, dense and warm, without even a second thought. The loose, soft layers of her pyjamas twist up around her knees—she's nearly in his lap. Quickly she throws out her arms to wrap around his neck and settles against him. It's familiar from the last time she's held him, but there is a pleasant  _hum_  from him that she can feel tingle down to her toes when he carefully leans against the side of her neck. His mouth moves quickly, and she can feel the tiny scratch of his stubble against her dry skin.

"…I'm sorry," Steve says, but he keeps his arms around her. "I promise I'm not usually so awkward about this." A sharp pause. "Well. Actually. That'd be a lie. But I'll uh, ask, next time?"

"This is fine," She sniffles a laugh. She hugs him tighter. "Were you cold? You could've asked for a hug."

He closes his eyes again, warm against her body. He actually feels way too warm, but he wouldn't give this up for anything. "'M not really good at telling people what I want."

"I've noticed," she remarks gently, a fingers lightly trailing through the slight dampness of his hair. She can easily conjure up the image of Steve breaking apart two nights before at the very  _idea_ of  _saying_   _no_  to an electric blanket. "But I like surprises."

His eyes snap open at the skip of his heartbeat.

She moves away, just an inch, to peer into his dark blue eyes. "Do you like surprises?"

His jaw. It's like a rusted hinge that he prys open. "Used to," he creaks.

She giggles and holds him closer, snugging into his neck. Her hair, tangled and wild, is still unbelievably soft to him.

"Steve," her breath tickles from under his chin. "You're  _really_  hot."

He stills, trying not to blush, because his face is red enough as it is. Natasha had to explain, in her own blunt way, that many of Steve's adjectives that were used to describe attractive people had gravely outdated—mainly for the worse _._  He blushes deeper.

A hand flashes to cover his forehead. "—Like, really, really warm. Medicine, pronto."

_Oh._

She's off towards her bathroom before Steve can protest otherwise, leaving his arms loosely defeated in his lap. He practices not mugging about having to swallow awful tasting gunk that wouldn't help him anyhow—he certainly can't not accept it.

From the edge beyond where her television sits, Steve focuses his hearing to a fine tune the music that's being played—the soldier can even hear the fine scratches of an old film being filtered back into use from the player. He doesn't recognize the song, but the lyrics are instantly not the cheerful tunes he's heard since the beginning of November.

_I'll have a blue. . .Christmas. . .without you. I'll be so. . . blue. . .just thinking. . .about you. Decorations. . .of. .red. . .on. . .a. green Christmas tree. . .just won't be. . .the same dear. . .without you here with me. . ._

Instantly Beth prances frantically through the room, sliding to her knees to stop the tape at once. "No, no,  _nope_ , not happening, no!"

Steve watches her in misunderstanding. "It wasn't so bad! What's wrong?"

"Elvis." She responds simply. From the floor, she does a strange swing of her hips that makes Steve suddenly wish he hadn't of asked, as he literally got a view of her shimming hips in form fitting pyjamas. The candy canes do not help. "This song and Elvis is what's wrong."

Steve practices the words on his tongue. "El vis?"

"Mhmm," Beth adds, distractedly. "This damnable song. They play it too much. It always just makes me so upset. I hate that it does that."

It's Steve's turn to tilt his head. "Isn't that Spanish?"

Her back is to him. Shoulders slightly up. Her head slowly turns to look at him like she's from a Warner Brothers cartoon. "…Spanish?"

"El Vis?" Steve asks. "I don't…follow?"

She slides around, smooth fabric over the carpet.  _"Elvis?"_  
  
"Oh! It's one word? Elvis?" Steve laughs. "Okay."

"No." She holds up a hand towards him, and he subdues. "I—wait. You just… _Spanish?"_

"I don't care for the radio." Steve defends breezily. "I have no idea what's new."

Her frozen look doesn't fade, and a strange chill goes up Steve's spine. That didn't fix anything.

"Steve, Elvis has been dead for, like, 40 years."

 _What._  Steve can feel sweat beaming down his cheeks, and it's no longer from his fever.  _Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid._

"I—I was just teasing you!" Steve suddenly chokes. " _Of course_ he's been dead for 40 years. I mean—who doesn't know Elvis, right?"

Beth continues to stare. "Well, he is 'The King of Rock and Roll'."

"Right." His mind jumps to all he possibly knows of rock and roll music, and it's most made of his own sounds of general contempt for Clint, Natasha, Pepper and Tony's music. It's too loud, and ridiculous, and did he mention  _loud?_

"Uh." She blinks. Slowly, she gets to her knees, and then to her feet. "Your fever felt pretty bad. Medicine. Right. I'm such a scatterbrain. Okay. I'll be back."

As discreetly as he can, Steve digs through his smart phone, needing less than one try to open up the Internet and type in  _Elvis_. He taps on the first video that sees.

Upon viewing "The King"'s picture, Steve realises he could smell his hair gel just from looking at him. He continues a quick history search from the video's comments—there are people talking about concerts from  _1955._  Steve blanches at the dates. Turning off the volume, Steve watches the video.

His mind is somewhere between shocked and unimpressed. His own opinions are too conflicted by what he feels, and what he's already seen by 2013. Firstly he's hit with:  _They'd allowed his_ hips _to move_   _like that?! Back_ then _?! On_ Television _?!_ Quickly followed by how much worse he's been subjected to. Steve had already been forced, (for  _learning purposes_ , smirked Tony and laughed Clint) to see far,  _far_  worse. But really. The singer's whole identity was just…completely wild. And if it had anything to do with the loud, straining garbage that was "Rock and Roll", Tony's t-shirts, and Pepper's intense, album collection that took up a whole room in Stark Tower, Steve's almost glad he missed it.

She's back, full measuring cup in hand coloured a sickly purple, which Steve reluctantly takes like a champ. At least it tastes like grape this time.

He clears his throat carefully. "Thank you," he says softly. "I'm sure I'll cool off soon. I'm sorry. It just…it just hit me how I could be spreadin' this around to you."

"It's okay," Beth says quickly. She thinks about his confession before with carrying around an illness. "I haven't been sick in a while. I could use a sick day."

"So," he thumbs back towards the stereo. "You don't like that song?"

"'Blue Christmas'?" Beth perks at his question. Then she deflates. "No."

"Yeah. I think you mentioned it before. Might I ask why?"

Her button nose wrinkles. Then she pouts for a second. Finally, she decides on her answer. "I'll keep my secrets, Soldier Steve. It's all I've got to play close to my chest with you and your secrets."

Steve cracks a smile. "Fair enough."

Along the table Steve drifts his gaze. There's a similar box seated along it. Square, with a tape inside—and a flashing red button. Back at his apartment he could tell it belonged, somehow, to wireless home phone cable. Perhaps that same voice mail box, like from Beth's cellphone?

"New message?" Steve risks the question, but he _has_  to make up for Elvis.

Beth's entire face seems to grow very pale at the machine. Instantly her hand reaches out and over one of the many square buttons as if to block Steve from seeing it. "Yeah. But—I've already checked. It's just Ronda."

"Ah," Steve nods. "Well, I hope she's well."

"She is." Beth says stiffly. It takes all of Steve's manners to not flat out ask her what the deal is. "She hopes you're feeling better. And is waiting for you to sue her about your side."

Steve chuckles lowly, even though it hurts. "Does she know about you meeting Natasha and the rest of the gals?"

"Um," She pauses. Steve waits for the answer, but there's a strange edge when it finally arrives. "Yes."

 _Okay. That has to go._  Steve thinks. Slowly he moves his own hand towards the box—and for a moment, Beth's eyes go wide and it seems as if she's going to tell him to stop—but their fingers touch, and Steve just pulls her hand away ever so slightly from the reel-to-reel of the tape inside.

"Hey—" he gathers her blue eyes towards his. He reaches up to pull at the collar of his sweater. "It's too hot in here. You wanna go take a walk, get some breakfast?"

Carefully, she smiles one of her classic small smiles. "Okay."

Steve keeps her hand wrapped in his, fingers intertwined. "Let's go, then."

He gives a slight pull forward, but Beth stays where she is. He looks at her questioningly.

She smiles wider. "How about I change into normal clothes?" She uses his hand and places it along her own side. "I don't think this is the latest style on the below zero avenue. What do you think?"

Steve's fingers inch inwards, folding the soft, velvet of her shirt till he actually has her side between his fingers—the warmth is a rush to his face. "Uhm—" he stammers. His heart ticks like a dying kick to a motorcycle, threating to not start. "You know my opinions on your candy canes. They're lovely."

She laughs, and the tension breaks as she eyes him shyly from under her eyelashes.

"And do you even have a jacket this time?" She looks him over suspiciously. Along the armchair pushed over by the door, she points towards a grey jacket lapping over the back. "If not, you can take that one."

"I have one," Steve answers her firmly, contemplating leaning down so they're eye to eye. "Will that be all, Miss Ore?"

She's up on her tiptoes and steals a kiss to the tip of his nose. "Now it will."

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: What are you hiding there, Beth? You don't seem the type…
> 
> COMING TO A COMPUTER SCREEN NEAR YOU: A TWIST IN THE PLOT. OR MAYBE IT'S SOMETHING REALLY OBVIOUS. BUT AT LEAST THERE'S A CHASE SCENE.


	29. In For A Dollar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: fixed for typeos 1/9/2014 SO. Kay missed the day of her own anniversary for this fic. Seriously, Kay? Seriously. Girl, you better make up for that nonsense, or I'm getting the newspaper.

 

* * *

He insists on his motorcycle.  _Insists._  There's a slight frustrated glow in his feverish eyes as he looks at her. Beth stands, unsure of fighting back for a warm subway train, fingers stroking the pocket of her own jacket. Whilst changing she had flipped on her t.v. to spy that it wasn't exactly -10 degrees outside, but somewhere between  _Shit, That's Cold_  and  _Don't Go Outside Again._ She settles for thermal sweat pants that she stuffs inside of her jeans, a white-golden sweater (buttons re-sewed courtesy of Ronda, because as much as Beth didn't want to admit it, her fingers had trouble holding tiny needles steady) and a green ribbon Christmas tree tie to hold up her matted hair. She tried brushing it out in the bathroom, but it just takes too much time. She felt strangely rushed with Steve near the door, rhythmically patting at his pockets.

"It's freezing out," she explains carefully. She places her cellphone into her jacket pocket, ringer on high. She isn't sure exactly what she's expecting. A call from Ronda, probably. And a call from Natasha. She bites her lip at that idea. She really hopes Natasha doesn't call. There's something so…scary about that woman. "You probably just feel really hot standing still."

"And you think the inside of a Subway train will feel any better?" He shakes his head slightly at her. "I just—"

"Want to be outside?"

His eyes dart to hers guilty. "I don't want to be enclosed in some metal box."

"So you'd rather be racing through ice slicks on some cold, metal rocket?"

"Rocket?" The hard lines in his forehead rise in consideration. "I've always thought it was safer than public transportation."

A hand presses to the door knob. "Well, if you need to cool down that badly, I better be prepared."

Steve edges carefully at the door. "May I?"

She turns, her light, wheat-shined hair cascading to lightly fall onto the golden-white of her sweater. "What?"

"Your jacket." He leans his hand over her arm, grasps it, and holds it open. "It'd be easier this way."

"Oh." Her blue eyes take in how simple the gesture is, and how she'd only seen that happen in remakes of old movies. Really,  _really_  old movies. She'd had men open doors for her, sure, but none of her…guests had ever offered to help her into a jacket. For a moment she feels like she's over analyzing every breath he's taking, but….he didn't know Elvis. Regardless of Ronda's tongue-in-cheek with Princess Buttercup and Rapunzel nicknames, she knows he's not telling the truth.

Her eyes can't help but check that the answering machine is still blinking. Still saved. Still unheard by Steve. She forces herself to smile politely. "Well, thank you."

Her thoughts flurry inside of her skull like a snow globe being shook, clouded with fake peppered flurries of doubt. She can't be too uptight about Steve possibly lying _. It's the first one I've seen._  Her cheeks pale into a smooth pool of derision.  _The first that I've had to hide from him, too. But Elvis? Seriously? It had to be a joke of a lie. A…really bizarre joke…?_

Beth shakes herself gingerly, pretending to brace for the snowy world outside. "Shall we go?"

He offers his arm to add to the charm of helping her into a jacket, almost as if he's listing off what he's supposed to do from the notes of a 1950's dating article. It's just  _too_  gentlemanly.  _Too...Argh_. She can't even put her finger on it.

So her slides her fingers between the spaces of his fingers, and entwined herself to his arm. She wishes there was a mirror nearby so she could laugh at them. The perfect picture of an 1800's couple waltzing through the snow. Except that the gentleman has a side full of stitches from walking around, bloodied, in the park, and the lady has an acute case of extreme posttraumatic stress disorder that she can't sleep alone. So, you know, perfect  _enough._

* * *

The thin, spindly branches hang high and cheerful over her apartment's stoop. The LED buds of the electric Poinsettias linger in the chilly air, mingling with the snowflakes and draping the reflective icecaps of the telephone wires. The holly-wreath doors wrap around the length of the neighborhood, streets shift and stoplights sway in the infinite blurring loops of cars, taxis, buses and pedestrians pounding the avenues.

Steve's motorcycle shines blue and black as it leans against the snow-covered brick of the back parking space. The thick, snow caked pools of frost dress up the heavy wheels in a lace of sprinkled ice crystals. Reflectively, Beth finds herself slowing down her usual quick pace.

"I know you've taken me on this for our first date, but the weather is just miserable—that doesn't worry you?" She points to the fact that the pipes weaving in and out of body of the beast are glowing with a smoky tint to the air—"I don't know much about bikes, but that doesn't look good."

Steve grips the solid bar effortlessly, pushing the bike so that it's easily able to take off at any second. He taps the black bottom of his left boot across the white coat layered over the black skin of the tires.

"It just takes longer than most motorcycles to cool down. It's a little old, I guess. That's just the heat displacement."

Beth paces herself and leans both of her arms, stretching waywardly into the wind, to touch at the seat. That was still warm, too.

"How fast did you drive here?"

"There's not a lot of traffic this early—I took the liberty to explore some back roads."

"So,  _fast?"_  She cuts in, her eyes narrowed. She traces a hand up to curl around the leather of the handles. There's a sudden static shock that licks at the inside of her wrists, and it makes her heart jump. Surprised, she nearly lets go, but her fingers stay tight to the handle. "You took it pretty slow on our date."

Slowly, she slides on the inch heel of her boots and grins at Steve with a familiar manic look of interest. She has an idea. It was the flash mob all over again. Beside her, he offers her help onto the bike, but Beth finds herself ignoring the hand all together, hiking over the edge herself and hoisting herself up, even if her own arms shake at supporting her weight. Suddenly she's sitting shotgun—if one could even call shotgun on a one seater-anything.

"Could you go faster this time?" She pushes her knuckles over the leather, waiting for another shock, but it doesn't come.

Steve looks at her curiously. "With you driving? Not a chance." Suddenly, a strong arm braces the seat of the bike and, with a little less than a wince lining his face, Steve is sitting behind her. "Now, with me driving? Sure. You like to go fast?"

"Well, you're insisting on riding this outside—the faster we get there, the faster we'll be warm again. That's the logic I'm runnin' with."

She can feel the frame of Steve holding her steady, and, unable to help herself, she scoots backwards to press her back into his stomach. She smiles at the intake of breath she triggers from just getting closer to him, and it makes her heart race. She fixes her hair tighter inside of its ribbon, and uses the other to tap at a round quarter shaped dial on the handlebars. "What're these?"

She feels bad that she's evening asking just to continue to feel how he would move, but it works. His arm spread around to tap the front of the motorbike's steering and she can see the fine definition of his arms. "Mileage, gas gauges, you know, the works. But food, right?"

"Food," she agrees haphazardly as she uses the insane strength of his arm to lower herself to the ground and shuffles back to trade places with him on the bike so that he can drive.

Beth wraps her arms as tightly as she can around his waist, thankful that she can nearly hide behind him to escape the whip of the wind. Even so, she still would take sitting shotgun with Steve's lips close to her ear, low voice filling her in on exactly how to steer so that she doesn't crash and burn in more ways than the literal. She loves it when she can get him to lean in close to her neck, the lingering musk that is suddenly more overwhelming than the concept of 'man'. It's that funny _boyfriend_  word that has trouble tripping out of the gate between the roof of her mouth and her tongue. It's so mystifying how someone can suddenly smell so much more  _amazing_  when they feel like they want to be with you—especially someone like Steve—who's kind, and generous, and pretty much destined to smells a tad like dust—but she  _really_  doesn't mind.

All she knows is that there is no way in hell she's going to say the word first.  _Boyfriend? Bleck_ , her own lips feel weird with such a childish word. She leans her head along the smooth surface of jacket quietly as she listens to Steve tinker the bike to life with a sharp, angry, rumble. She used to feel fine with it. Boyfriend—it was so easy to say, to understand. It spoke of Prom, of college dorm rooms and tight-knit family Christmas dinners. Classic. Simple.

But that ended so suddenly. Prom was a scrapbook, college was over, and living alone in New York had been blown to pieces along with half of her sanity. She couldn't just label things like she used to. She couldn't box in all that was wrong with herself, or the peace movements or the death of thousands of children in the Battle of New York or the meaning of Super Beings dawning across the world. It all reminded her of how she used to struggle with what it meant to truly label oneself—Beth always found that it was too risky a process that often wasn't her own. It was either she found something herself and came to her own conclusion—harbored it from the world, from her friends, as the moment they gave their own opinion against her own, it would all changed. The memory would rearranged itself like a Jacob's Ladder, twist down and up and suddenly form the complicated double-helix of a DNA strand—and she could only see the once simple and clean idea of her personal mixed with the ideas of her friends, and become lost.

What did it mean to call someone out of college something as surreal as a 'boyfriend'? After she'd held him, breaking down in her arms, on her bed, blood smeared across her arms? She was pretty sure there were married couples that couldn't handle situations like that. Not after only days of knowing him. Or, meeting him again, rather.

Beth wasn't sure exactly what they were. But she wanted to meet his friends. She wanted him to be a part of her tiny, slightly tattered life that kept trying to hide itself into anything but reality. But it felt right. Holding Steve's body against hers felt fantastically  _good._  A reality that she both received and transcribed, and wasn't afraid of.

The motor gave a triumphant roar that made other hooded heads turn to stare at them. Steve swallowed and waves a bit. Beth peeks over his shoulder to spy that another motorist had sped passed them, head turned as well.

Steve turned slightly, dark blue eyes faceted in his pale face. Beads of sweat still lingered around his hairline. She reached up to gently wipe the dots away. "I sincerely hope this makes you feel better, as now you're making  _me_  sweat. This is probably a really stupid idea to have you drive with a fever."

She can only see the blond throw his head back in laughter. "No, it only means that you're beginning to understand that we're on the same page. I'm full of those."

* * *

They're quiet only for the fact that it's impossibly frustrating to try to hold conversation with the din of New York traffic, and the impatient howl of the wind. It's only when Beth notices a distinct lower growl echoing from behind them that she manages to duck her head to look back. It's only another motorcyclist, but the figure hadn't gotten off their tail for nearly a mile—if she counting seeing the silver-whisked square street names correctly. Which, she probably hadn't. Steve had kept his promise on roaring fast and lethally through the streets. She enjoyed the way it made his shoulders curl forward, readily, as if at any second he's expecting a drag race.

Another block. Another block. Another block. Block. Block. Another green light. Beth glances back to see Steve's own in the mirror, looking back at her. It's a little shocking to see blue eyes that are, and are not, her own.

Steve's blue eyes reflect back at him in the side mirrors before he speaks, his voice rough but very loud over the rush, jacket whipping backwards. "That one of your evil ex-boyfriends?"

Beth goes to answer, but settles for a shake of her head. The warmth from her neck fades into his lower back. She raises her voice harshly over the wind. "Not that I'm aware of. Maybe?"

"I'm not being paranoid to think he's been following us for a while, am I?"

Beth locks an arm tighter around the soldier's waist. "Not if you don't think I'm being too paranoid to agree with you."

She watches Steve's jaw twist up, eyes tight in the mirror's steady warble, moving his image up and down—it's startling, like Beth's staring at a stranger in the mirror. A stranger that is no longer kind and gentle and warm. Those blue eyes are somewhere else that isn't New York. Somewhere that is so far out of Beth's own imagination, her mind starts to wonder into dark places. Like hostage situations and bombs and the screams of sirens. It's frightening.

She forces her voice to not be a squealing pitch of worry. They've both already talked about how they're, well, sort've crazy. Not sleeping, paranoid. . .scared of strange things. This wasn't some crazy stalker chase. This was breakfast. This was 8 o'clock in the morning with her sick boyfriend on a motorcycle. Anything that didn't fit into those three categories couldn't actually be happening right now. "Steve?"

Hearing his name whirls his body into action. A tightly locked fist changes gears. A heavy boot locks his foot onto the break and edges a little too close to a parked car (which makes Beth coo nervous sounds), ducking into a turn lane and gunning it for an empty street.

"Well, I'm not in the mood to fool around. I guess we'll find out."

"I only dated three guys in school. And the rest…" She mutters against the raging pull of Steve's jacket, thrown back by the icy wind. Her tone dies lower as she blushes and rests her face alongside his jacket, trying not to feel ashamed. "…none of them had a motorcycle, though."

Her eyes arrow to the metallic gleam of the sun hitting the mirror. The icy blue of Steve's eyes hasn't changed. However, she catches that Steve's lips have slid into a slightly proud smirk. _He_  can hear every word just fine. "Not'a one?"

Her arms squeeze tightly around his waist in alarm. She was so sure no one would possibly hear her say that over the roar.

"You'd be the first." She says clearly, loudly, as if she had no problem saying that to his face. ( _Lie. That's such a lie, Beth, you doofus.)_  "I'll admit it. It's attractive."

The growl from a quickly turning motor flies itself into full throttle as it rockets back along an alley. He can hear it's revve from 200 yards back and counting. "Yeah. Well, this guy obviously wants a piece of our action."

Beth feels her hands slipping, trying to fumble back some control she thought she had. She thinks about her options here: beyond being on a speeding death trap that's zooming over ice and chased by another speeding death trap. She falters, knocking her head softly against Steve's back. "If only I had driven. I don't attract friends like you do, Steve."

"I don't know anyone else with a motorcycle, doll." Steve says half listening, his attention strained to dodging more parked cars for dead alley ways. The thundering paw of another set of tires is catching up,  _fast._

"It's not your one friend, is it? The one that—accidently hurt your side?"

"Th—" Steve literally bites his tongue and puts all his weight into the motorcycle, hearing it groan in protest as he lifts them into a tight turn. Lord, it's hard to balance conversation while harrowingly escaping a chase. He doesn't know how Clint and Natasha manage it so efficiently. He only sums that it must come down to tact and years of being with someone. Minus the fondue. He  _thinks_. He isn't entirely clear on that one. No one in the Tower really is. _"_ He doesn't—drive."

"Oh, well. Cross him off our list of people that want to ruin our day."

"Not today," Steve agrees—although Beth's voice is lost in the keening sound of metal grinding off the slick, melting road under them. The bump of a tire losing its traction is instinct to Steve. Suddenly, the soldier throws out the heel of his boot fast—its burnt black at its heel from the sheer friction of his weight against the will of his own motorcycle. They slam into a jarring hold—Beth white as sheet, braced tight against his back—just her eyes are open to watch the amazing feat occur.

They wait in silence as the mingling of their own panting dances through the air.

A motorcycle is such a fast blur Beth nearly misses it. But she doesn't miss the loud, wonderful sound of it riding further and further away.

Beth stares wide eyed at Steve, who stares wide eyed at her. "Did…did that just happen?"

"I—did I run a red light?" His blue eyes jump to her. "Did I just out run the police?"

"That wasn't the police, and you know it, Steve." Beth says breathlessly. "We don't know who that was. Or. Or if they were really even following us." She swivels to look at his expression, exasperated and heated. "D'you think he was?" She pauses, and then floods through giving him time to answer. "It's funny how distance makes things seem so….completely paranoid."

She throws her hands outwards, fists balled, and holds them against her stomach, curling up for only a moment. "God, what is  _wrong_  with us?"

"Yes." Steve states sharply. Then he looks her over, all soft lines and big blue eyes. "No." He crushes his eyes closed, his head pounding. "I don't know."

She slowly blows out air from between her fingers, and hides her shaking hands into her jacket pockets. "Well. He's not here, anyway."

Steve glances around from all sides—once—twice—three times—four—Beth's hands suddenly hold his face still. "He's  _gone,_ " she says with a hint of faint finality. "It's okay."

He drops his gaze, fingers to his eyebrows. "I'm—sorry."

"No, oh, no," Beth adds, her eyes bright, round, and very, very blue. "I didn't mean that what you're doing wasn't okay. I just meant—he's gone." She slowly sucks in the chilling air and swallows that down to cool off her thudding insides.

Steve leans heavily, slanting the bike against the rouge bricks of the passage. His eyes seem clear, and suddenly sad. "Maybe he was never there to begin with."

* * *

The inside of the Waffle House is huge, toasty, and wooden, with an orange, pulsing pink, pulsing blue, jukebox in the middle wall. Beth keeps her hands stuffed inside her jacket pockets, secretly clinging onto old pens and extra dollars from the last time she had went out with it. She only lets her fingers go when they stop stabbing the edge of the pen into her own side. So far, there wasn't been must luck. Only pain.

Remembering this, her eyes linger to Steve's own side that is still tastefully hidden under the warm fit of his sweater. She uses the last of her tangled nerves to rub at Steve's arm while they stand just outside the waiting entry way. That earns her a tight lipped smile from Steve, who carefully lifts his fingers to fix her ribbon back along her hair, keeping the tips of his fingers lightly along the back of her neck.  _At least there's barely anyone here_ , Beth thinks with an air of comfort.  _We can just sit here and shiver and blame it on the cold. Like normal couples._

Beside her, Steve takes a few deep breaths at the door before opening up for Beth to walk in. Before, she was impressed and little humbled at him being so actively cavalier. Now she feels like he's politely opening up a door for her to womanly walk into a line of public fire.

The older man working the host counter is wrapped up in a scarf littered with collector Disney pins. Beth forces her best "It's so nice to see you" smile that she greets consumers with at her work, fingers tight around the pen.

"Good morning folks!" He greets chipperly. He gives Beth a wink and a nod to Steve. "Bit nippy out there, yeah? You two look like you've seen the ghost of Jacob Marley!"

"S-sorry?" Beth's smile continues to be bright on her face, her cheeks rosy against the yellow of her hair. She knows  _Bob Marley_ , but she gets the feeling that isn't what this Disney man is talking about. She stares at the handcrafted pin-sparkling face of Mulan in her warrior's uniform in defeat. Steve tries not to cringe beside her. He wishes he knew how she could just 'snap' and suddenly act so believably saccharine. At least he can help out a bit.

"Clever," Steve carefully places his hand on Beth's shoulder. "That's a reference not many folks would get these days."

"Ah," The man hums pleasantly. "You're a reader then, sir!"

"Who  _hasn't_  read Charles Dickens?"

"Just for that you two can have the pick of the house!" The man, whom Steve can only guess is one of the few lonely souls working the winter-bitter shift at a breakfast nook in December, motions his arms proudly around the restaurant. There is no one else around. All the tables are open. "The _Waffle_ House, that is."

Another wink at Beth, and she can't help but smile. "That's very nice of you. Uh—" She glances at Steve and talks anyways—"We'll have a booth, please. Close as you can to the heater."  _you really need to control your control, Ore._  Beth chides internally.

"This-a-way," The pin-laced man answers, leading them towards a booth in the back near a holly-wrapped window.

Beth slides into the right side whilst Steve sits down across from her, elbows bared on the wooden table. The waiter quickly comes back with two menus before, strangely, Beth notices him looking straight down at her lap. She twitters uncomfortably.

The waiter looks even more uncomfortable. "Excuse me—Miss, you seem to be—that's not blood, is it?"

"Blood?!" Beth jumps, smacking her knee cap against the bottom of the table before scrabbling down to find that there's a dark pool in the edge of her pocket. She had held a pen so hard that it had snapped. "Oh," she breathes out deeply. "No—No, that's just—uh. Stain. Now it's a stain."

From across the table Steve leans forward, if only to get the man to leave. "She's got it, thanks."

The waiter disappears again. Beth stares down at the dark stain on her waist. She slowly looks up at Steve, her smile tight and then she laughs. Giggles _. Snorts_. She places her hands cross the table to show him the pen that had broken. She can't articulate how absolutely hilarious it is that is just  _ink_ and she hadn't magically sprung a wound to match Steve's own. At least an external one.

Steve doesn't join her laughter. Instead he focuses his large fingers on carefully edging hers apart from the bits of broken plastic. He dips a napkin into his water, eye-twitching when he touches the ice cubes, and tries to get a bit of the black ink off of her long fingers. He motions through wiping her hands, even though it's already apparent that it's not going to come off so easy.

Dipping the napkin in for the fourth time, he mutters: "My friend made a joke about this kind of thing." He drifts his blue eyes to Beth's, and the back down. "Well. In my head, I guess."

"Ronda talks to me all the time in my head, if that helps." Beth says softly. "Sort've. Like a guide."

Steve takes up her fingers once more, the slightly rough pads of his thumb holding her thumb—she can feel the heartbeat at its base. Slightly fast, but much more rational than hers. She has to get a  _grip_. And not a on a pen.

"Right, well, mine's kinda've like a jerk,"

She runs her fingers along his wrist as he continues to try and clean her hands. It's sweet that he's working an impossible job. She's a mess inside and out. "This your famous friend?"

"Heh," He cracks a grin widely. "Yeah. Basically. That famous bit doesn't help him much either. He's full of it."

She laughs softly. "Well, what did he say?" She pauses. "In your head?"

Steve's fingers stop them rhythmical, calm rubbing of her skin. He looks at her carefully, his expression rearranging into a look of contempt. His brows steel frustration.

"When I was, uh, out of it." He clears his throat to steady his voice. "Lying in your bed that night—you mentioned that you couldn't get my blood off your—b-body." He stutters over the word. "And uh, well, his voice made a joke that said I would be, uh, 'tenderly soaping the blood off of your arms' like it was some grand romantic gesture. Because, well, he claims himself to be quite the lady killer."

Beth looks at him kindly, and raises an ink-stained finger to trace the lines of worry along his face. Despite already feeling way too warm, her fingertips feel wonderful on his face. He wishes he had the nerve to catch her hand and kiss each of her fingertips without looking a smittened fool.

"I think that is a grand romantic gesture, Steve." Beth says lowly, softly, her pink lips artfully falling into a venerable beam.

He finds himself just gazing at her, swallowing down everything he wish he could say. She carefully untangles her fingers from his own to pick up, and then put down, a menu.

"I'll be right back—I'm gonna go try and use some soap from the ladies' room to get this off before I start staining you or something, okay?"

"I wouldn't minded getting stained by you," Steve says, suddenly quirking because he isn't sure what exactly he was thinking when he said that. He frowns. Picks up a menu. Pretends to be disturbingly fascinated with the extremely complex world of making his own omelet. "I'm going to be over here. You. Just. Good luck."

She looks at him just as oddly perplexed. "How  _do_  you—"  
 _  
Riiiiing. Riiiiiiiiing._

They both jump—only Beth dives into her pocket for her cellphone. She blinks at the unknown number. She had always made a pretty special point of keeping her phone organized.

"I don't know who this is."

Steve looks up at her. "I suppose the only way to find out is to answer it."

"Right," Beth agrees, rising up and heading towards the bathroom. "I'll be back. Excuse me."

Steve can't help but linger his eyes over watching her leave—flashing back to the mental image of her shaking hips at him in candy-cane pyjamas. And boy, does she look like a  _dish_  in anything she wears.

He doesn't notice when a shadow suddenly looms over where Beth had sat to begin with.

* * *

She hits the button, balances the phone to her chin, and forces her hands under the scalding shutter of the hot water.

"Hello—?"

There's a faint buzz of chatter in the background. "Darcy! Darcy, would you shut up for five seconds, I'm calling, I'm callin—oh,  _hello?"_

Soap.  _Lots_  of soap. "Uh—hi. You called me? Whoever this is?"

"Yes!" A woman's voice. Very collective, yet interested in how she's just sort've storming Beth's phone. "Yes I did! Hello! My name is Jane. Jane Foster—I think you've probably heard of me through Steve. Steve Rogers?"

There is suddenly a mountain of soap in Beth's hands from how many times she's pumped the dispenser. "Uh—sorry, I can't say that Steve said anything about you—mainly Natasha…uh." Suddenly, it clicks as she thinks back to their late-night conversation over the phone. "Oh. _Jane._  Wait,  _yes_."

A loud puff of air is poured into the phone. "That man is so closed-lipped about you, I swear, I'm gonna scream. This is getting ridiculous."

Beth never thought she had to literally remind herself of the steps it took on how to  _wash her hands_ , but she's doing it. "Excuse me?"

"Oh," Another buzz of chatter. "Sorry, I'm just really excited to meet you. You really have no idea how  _awesome_  this is."

"Y-Yeah," Beth agrees nervously. "I'm excited, too. When are we meeting, exactly?"

"Well, Darcy loves to drive shotgun, or else I'd say I'm coming to get you, but I figure we'll pick you up from your place. Say…20 minutes?"

"20  _minutes?_ " Beth says, alarmed. "I—I'm out to breakfast with Steve—I can't just leave him."

There is a distinct shifting of phones—Beth pulls the receiver away from her ear to save herself from a sudden, short and loud fight for the line.

"Sorry, but this is pretty friggin' important." There's a new voice on the line in a lower register, but she certainly doesn't care. "Oh. Jane says I should tell you who I am. Okay,  _Jane_ , I'm Darcy Lewis. Pleasure. But back to business: You're ours today. Seriously, this place turns into a sausage fest, and I'm not letting another hour slip by without meeting you! Steve is silly to think that he can steal you away—keep you hidden—but this happening. This is  _so_ happening."

"I don't—hide me?"

Another shift. This time a darker voice. A voice Beth has not forgotten. "Excuse Darcy, she's…excitable."

"Na—Natasha, hi."

"Beth,"

Beth finds herself staring at her own reflection in the mirror, feeling completely out of place. What was she thinking with all of this Christmas glamour and ribbons? Freakin'  _ribbons?_   _They're going to think you're a joke._

"How—how have you been?"

"Keeping up." A pause. "Where is Steve?"

"Out with me."

"And he's doing well?"

"Well, he has a fever—but I forced some Tylenol on him. He'll be fine, I'm sure."

Another pause. Almost….almost something that could've been a sort've…laugh?

"That's nice to know. Keep him in line, will you? That last thing I want is another…incident."

"Sure," Beth says, using her water soaked hands to push the hair out of her face to reveal a very scared complexion. She just starts mashing the hair to her forehead. "How dangerous could breakfast be?"

"You'd be surprised with us at your heels."

Beth tries to smile. It was almost as if Natasha sounded a little…nicer. Maybe.

"But you guys want me there in 20 minutes? Really? I just…"

"You will have  _plenty_ of time to be with Rogers. It's difficult for all of us women to get together like this and…meet you. And we have another…friend who has decided to meet you, too. It's a little rushed, but that's how interesting this has turned out to be." It takes the end of that bit for Beth to realise that it's changed. Back to Jane, apparently.

Beth's head is spinning just to keep up with so many voices. "We'll be there soon, just tell us where you're at and that's that. Steve'll understand, I'm sure. He's such a sweet guy."

"With such a sweet ass," Beth hears another voice through the phone. Darcy, she thinks.

"So, please be ready. And on time. Please." Jane's voice again. Another switch.

"Don't disappoint me, Miss Ore." Natasha's. It's the final voice she hears before the line clicks dead.

Beth slowly looks at the phone in her hand before deciding to finally check her mobile voice mail. She'd gotten the first one on her land line. But now it was Ronda blowing up her cellphone, too.

_"You. Better. Fucking. Call. Me. Beth."_  Is the only breathless phrase Ronda chants before she hangs up. Her answering machine had said a heck of a lot more. But for now, Beth stands in the bathroom and shivers.  _"Something is_ wrong _with_ him. _"_

* * *

Steve stills and can  _smell_  the man before he even sees him. Putrid—black cigar smoke, tar leakage between gums. Heavy breather.

Steve is met with the intense gaze of two coal black eyes staring out at the soldier from a recently trimmed side burns of thick, dark hair. The soldier in Steve tries to analyze the fella before addressing him.

_He's not nearly as tall as me, probably 5'4, 5'5?—_ but what he lacks in height, Steve can just  _tell_ he makes up for in raw power. It's freezin' out, and the guy has nothing but a wife-beater, jeans, black leather jacket, and what looks to be a midnight black cowboy hat. In-doors.

He certainly seems older than Steve physically. But those eyes. Steve can't bring himself to look away.

"Can I help you, sir?" Steve asks with a clear of his throat, although his voice sounds hoarser than he would've liked.

A cruel grin lurches across the man's face, his chops showing off the unsettling gleam of a layer of yellow over what used to be white teeth. The man turns, squaring the concentrated build of his shoulders to stare in the direction of Beth's departure. "Nice bit of skirt, eh?"

Steve's teeth knock together inexpertly. He isn't entirely sure how he feels about this stranger saying such a thing, but he really doesn't want to deal with anyone right now. Not after what he's been through. "Look, fella, I don't know what it'll take for you to not say that again. So, gimmie a break, and let's not talk about her."

The grin gets wider. This time with more teeth. Steve wishes the guy would have the common disclosure to close his mouth once and a while. "Whatever you say, kid."

And then the man simply sits down right in Beth's seat.

Steve glares at him incredulously from across the table. "All right—what's the big idea?"

The dark haired fella shakes his head a sharp, acute twist. He reaches up to scratch at his facial hair as if he's  _meant_  to be in this seat. "Look, bub, that's not the way you intimidate somebody."

"Intimidate?" Steve raises his brows at the shorter man. "I'm not trying to intimidate anyone." He glances to make sure Beth isn't coming and sharply lowers his voice. "I need you to get out of my girlfriend's seat."

"Oh, your  _girlfriend?_ " The man's low voice is a raspy, muttered growl that feels like it's just a sarcastic grind against Steve's eardrums. "So I can't test my luck, huh? You don't think she'd be into all of this?" He gestures down to himself and gruffly chuckles. "Too much hair?"

" _Why_  are you doing this? Seriously."

The eyes zero in on him. "I hear she gets around, though. I think you're wrong."

Steve feels his façade draining. His hands ball into fists in his lap. "You  _gotta_  leave."

Those cold, coal-black eyes don't even bat an eye. "Wow, you're terrible at this, aren't ya?"

Steve grits his teeth at him, and the man's pupils seem to grow large in excitement. Another toothy smile.

"You don't like me, and you don't even know me." The dark haired man says pleasantly. "Y'know you remind me of someone—the only difference is that you can actually  _look_  me in the eye."

"You've insulted my gal twice, and, frankly, you smell awful." Steve says exasperatedly. "I don't much care to get to know you."

Dark bushy eyebrows rise up, nearly to disappear into the tangled mass of more black mane around the man's hairline. He slowly raises a hand up, fingers extended and…

Steve braces alertly, and his palms suddenly fly to hold himself, spring loaded, hovering about the table, but he pauses—hair on the back of his neck lifts.

But the man simply scratches at his cheek again. "Jumpy, ain't'cha? Calm down. You make me nervous just ta' look at ya."

"I'm not going to calm down until you explain to me what in God's name you're  _doing."_

"You could start that process by askin' me my name. Sheesh." He tips his fingers back to knock at the cowboy hat and slowly lowers it from off of his head. "And I was told you were the most courteous of  _all_  The Avengers."

Steve's blood turns to ice, his mouth falls open. His voice is a crushed, deformed whisper.

"What did you say?"

The dark eyes rise from the menu to crash into Steve's. "Oh,  _now_ you're interested in me?"

"Don't say that  _again_." Steve says, his voice a low, dark threat that he makes certain that this arrogant man can understand. " _Not_  here _. Not_  in front of Beth."

"Then have a polite conversation with me, kid, and I won't go name droppin' your pretty little secret."

Steve reels back, back pressed to the cushion of the booth and presses a hand over his eyes to check his fever. The man across the booth gives a single sniff with his nose, and his own eye twitches.

"Christ. You go and tell me I smell bad, but bub, you smell like blood and sickness." He leans closer to Steve, hairy muscular arms extended across the plastic of the menus. "That woman sure smells nice, though. Tell me, you clever son of a gun, are you using her to hide?"

Steve flexes his fingers outwards or else he just knows he's going to deck 'em.

"What is your name?" Steve says frustratingly low.

"Logan," the man responds curtly.

"Last name?"

"Full name," The dark, wild hair of the man seems to frame his toothy grin even further. "And me and you, we gotta talk."  
 _  
"Why,_  Logan?"

"Because it was damn hard enough to track you two down on my own motorcycle. I can't let you get away again."

Steve's eyes go wide. He wants to scream. "That. Was.  _You?"_

"My bad. Thought I smelled a mutant. I figured it would've been you." Black eyes scrutinize the soldier from soles of his boots to the tips of his hair. "But it's s'not."

Steve's brows furrow in tightly, his pulse heady. "If not me, then who else?"

Logan's black eyes dart to the side once more. "What about that bit of skirt you had?"

Steve feels his stomach dropping. Fury had told him, as non-commentary as he could, about mutants. Steve just felt he never would believe it until he sees it, kinda deal. "I don't like what you're implying, guy."

"Oh. Then if you don't like that—you  _really_  not gonna like what comes next. There's something pressed onto me about you that we gotta talk about. Mainly—shit we got in common."

Steve pushes the silverware away and begins to stand. "I'm done. I have  _nothing_  in common with you."

"It's that dick-head Fury's orders."

Steve stills, if only for a second. "I'm leaving. And if you follow us, so  _help_  me—"

"War, Steve." Logan says. He looks up at the soldier, and Steve's get the full force of those dark, hateful eyes. "We got  _World Wars_ , in common." He lingers for a moment and arches his hand for Steve to sit back down. "You might wanna not pass that up."

That gets him. Bucky's picture in his pocket is lead, sinking him back to the earth.  
"I don't…understand."

"Yeah," Logan says, his smiling slipping into a cool, collected line. "It's a  _long_  story."

* * *

 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Just a quick word before any of you lovely views start to think I've went off the deep end and am just going to royally take certain characters (Beth) out of proportion. I am not. Please, please try not to worry. Beth is going to stay as Beth is. Take that whichever way you want. I just really wanted to clear that up because I, too, hate it when authors bring in out of left field ideas and assign it to characters where it really had no idea of being, so please give me a chance to, well, let the story explain!
> 
> Oh yeah. Reasons I wanted Wolverine somehow in this fic:
> 
> 1\. It's Wolverine and Steve Rogers talking about war. Jesus, that's the best thing EVER.
> 
> 2\. CAMEOSSSSS.
> 
> 3\. See one and two.
> 
> Considering that X-Men: Days of Futures Past (which isn't the silliest title from the X-Men series, I should warn you) is soon to drop into theaters I took this moment to have another fun cameo that actually moves the plot along. And, although I doubt anyone actually will get their skivvies in a bunch over this scene, think of it like this: it's like a shot. It won't last long, but it's definitely going to keep you wondering that if that nurse didn't squeeze the air out of the syringe before she injected you, you'd so be dead right now.
> 
> …What the hell am I talking about? It's late. I'm tired. I'm really tired, guyses.
> 
> So WOW guys, a LOT friggin' happened in this chapter! Jeez! I hope it nearly being 20 pages makes up for me missing my own anniversary date, as this story, officially over 300 pages as of this chapter, was published as of last year yesterday, December 17th.
> 
> Once more, just, I'm a glow in all the wonderful reviews and love and alerts and praise you all have blessed with me. Particularly with Steve, Steve and Beth's relationship, and Beth herself as a character. I've worked so hard to give all that I can to develop and love all of the characters, and it certainly means the world that you guys can see the attention I've given to Beth.
> 
> I do have to say that writing her is one of the hardest parts of this story, mainly because I personally loath OCs (original characters). Now, I understand that canonly Beth isn't an OC, she is in the universe—but because we know almost NOTHING about her canonly, she basically had be my own creation and I feared that. I very much cannot stand when authors put OCs into their fics as the main viewpoint or character of their stories—mainly because there is SO much more to explore about the already existing characters in the universe and an OC just seems completely unnecessary. But other big reason (as I am sure it is also many of yours) is that many OCs just are not written well, properly, or within a lot of interest reason that isn't a trope of some sort.
> 
> In short, my interpretation of Beth isn't perfect. Still, I've just continue to give it my very best to keep her engaging, interesting, a rational human being, and above all: realistic and relatable without becoming a "manic pixie dream girl", the most feared of terrors to fanfiction. So, basically I am so humbly grateful to you readers for giving me feedback of all kinds and for letting me know that Beth continues to be a very in-depth character so I don't have to set myself on fire. Keep me on the right tract, folks!
> 
> SO NOW MY LOVELY READERS: this next part is going to be a bit like a "Choose Your Own Adventure Story". You tell me in a review whose adventure you'd like to see first (as don't worry, you will see both): my building up of Beth and Ronda's hidden messages, the rest of the Avengers Girls and that mysterious friend of theirs, or Steve and Logan's adventure into the past, and…a certain lost friend of Steve's future?
> 
> THANK YOU AGAIN.


	30. Meeting The Gals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our beloved Beth meets Jane, Darcy and Natasha!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 31: Meeting The Gals  
> AN: Merry Christmas eve, guys. C: You know, sometimes really special things happen, even on Christmas Eve, that remind you about what is really important. This one goes out to my best friend, my dearest heart, TitansGirl. I love you, girly. Thank you for sharing all that you have with me over the years. You're so special to me and so many others. Please always know that.
> 
> Wonderful cheer goes out to Goldenpuon (hii! 8D), for her lovely words and her incredible new cover for this story! YES!
> 
> Thank you SO very much for the reviews! If this thing hits 300 reviews, I'm gonna flip a table. Or my desk. Or. My. Life? Maybe I'll make a video and put it on the YouTubes or something answering questions or something if anyone is curious to how nearly 400 pages is happening, jesus. I'll even sing that obnoxious Steve Rogers musical song and dance.
> 
> It'll be...great. It'll be...my proudest moment as a writer. Yeah.
> 
> Yeah...
> 
> So, by now, you've probably noticed that my music choice ranges from pretty cool to downright tragic. I can only imagine that as this novel goes on, you'll see more and more of old Kay's rather …eclectic… tastes. Here, have some more R.E.M. The obvious choice, of course.
> 
> So I mainly got votes for seeing what happens in this episode of SuperWomenBondingTime as Beth is confronted with the trio that is Natasha, Darcy, and Jane! (but when Pepper, Kay, WHEN?! Ahh, but I see you shiver with antici…) . YEAH. That's. That's…that's what this is, basically. And uh. I hope you enjoy. Because I did. This was great. (pation.)
> 
> Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!
> 
>  
> 
> Hello my friend, are you visible today?  
> You know I never knew that it could be so strange. (strange)  
> Hello, I'm sorry, I lost myself.  
> I think I thought you were someone else.

 

* * *

"Oh," Beth's soft-toed boots, miniature heel hushed across the snow-smudged wood floors, halt. "Uh—hello there."

Steve  _doesn't_ appreciate the way that this Logan character is just grinning at Beth, all sharp pointed teeth and cheeks full of eggs. "Hello yourself, darlin',"

Beth's eyes sharpen to expertly cross the table to address Steve in a pattern of  _I just went to the bathroom and what the hell is this?_  To which Steve sinks lower in his chair, purple circles pressed into the skin of his knuckles as he hides his face in anguish.

A quick huff of hot air bursts from Steve's mouth, but his lips are a tight, firm line. "Beth, this is Logan. Logan, Beth."

"It's…nice to meet you?" Beth says disjointedly, suddenly unable to summon her usual table manners. Her mind is everywhere—out the window in the snow, inside of her phone weighing like stone against her hipbone with Ronda's missed calls, trapped into the dark, shielded impulse in Steve's eyes as he willed the motorcycle faster and  _faster._  She flutters a hand to reach for her glass of water, bravely crossing the threshold between the soldier and the mutant. "Steve always seems to make  _friends_  wherever he goes."

The exasperation behind her polite phrasing of 'friends' to sound so pointedly  _un_ friendly is a feat of the throat that makes Logan take an ounce of interest in her, beyond her unmistakably  _different_ scent.

"Sorry for taking your seat." Logan addresses lowly. He leans back across the booth with his arms pulled up leisurely across his chest just to drill in how much he isn't going to move. He draws his dusky eyes over her lips as she sucks on the straw, and the water is a bitter realization that she has to gulp down. He isn't leaving. She is.

"You're welcome to sit back down again though." A scratch of dirty nails rubs at Logan's cheek. "Steve and I were just about to talk."

Another snide up turn of a raised lip. Her eyes bounce to Steve's. "A new friend or an old friend?"

Steve wishes, really, truly, honest to goodness  _wishes_ , that he could make this all go away by lifting this greaseball by the throat with the nails of his fingertips and tossing him outta here.

"New. He just…showed up." Steve grits out, but keeps a thin measure of calm washed over his tone to try and get Beth understand that  _he doesn't want this,_ but Bucky's picture in his pocket is  _merciless_  for him to explain, just as irrationally, that somehow…he  _does._ He has to know what Logan has to say. If he served in the ranks as well for World War II…

"Well—I have a surprise too," She drives her still vainly ink-stained hand into a pocket and wraps it around the rubbery case of her phone. "Your  _old_  friends called—they want to pick me up from my place in, like, fifteen minutes."

The large, slightly stubborn hand that had been covering Steve's temple slides down his face and lands dimly over the table. "Right now?"

"Yeah," Her smile is taunt over her teeth. "But I guess that works out—with you, and uh—"Her eyes take in Logan's once more. His pupils expand just to look at her, drinking in the dark and somehow dangerously contemplative view. "Sorry—your name again?"

"Logan," Steve snaps instantly at her, gaining her attention rather tactlessly. "You—right  _now?"_

Beth's eyes glow at how hard he's pushing for her to stay—she feels her bottom lip caving upwards, uprooting her attempt to dance around their new…company, without fuss. "Steve, we both knew that this was happening today—it's all in their court."

"But," Steve protests in a flounder. "Breakfast?"

Beth keeps her hand steeled around her phone. He looks so completely nonplussed.

"Do you only think about food?" She twists uncomfortably in her socks. Sweat starts delicately reddening hollow of her neck. "…besides, Natasha…she said that I really need to be on time. And…and I really don't want to disappoint her Steve—I mean—" She stops. She suddenly feels that stranger's intense gaze over her body as realises what she was about to say.

She closes her eyes tightly, just for a moment, suddenly imagining that smooth, hard panic button still in her drawer. … _She trusted me with you.  
_  
Steve pales. He slowly drops his eyes back to Logan who has just been listening there this whole time, completely uncaring. The silverware, connected table, and three  _booths_  jump from the sheer force as Steve pulls himself up to stand, suddenly very indifferent himself to who stares. "I'll take you home, then."

Beth gathers her jacket buttons in one hand, pressing it clear to her chest. "Really. I've got this."

His blond brows furrow deeply. "With all that's happened, I just want to—"

"Steve—I can get a cab," She smiles again, straining. "You're sweet, but I've—"

"I promised to spend time with you  _before_  all of this—"

"Steve," Beth lowers her voice impatiently. "You have company—I  _have_  to leave. It's okay. I'll see you—"

Steve feels trapped between the piercing, shadowy gaze of this incredulous man before him and Beth leaving. It makes his side burn, his chest pulse like his heart is doing double-time. There wasn't enough time yet. That voice, so silent for quite a while, suddenly hisses from the depths in uproar of his subconscious,  _Why do you always run out of time?_

Then Beth lays a fair bit of her weight into a lean. She's pushing her hand over Steve's in an attempt to seal him to the table. Steve can feel her strength keeping him down the way the ocean feels the rain storm; it is a chaotic force that mists, drizzles, and pounds across the colossal, colliding waves of another.

_Don't leave me yet_ , the whirling waves would beg the fleeting storm.  _I am so still without you.  
_  
"I said  _no,_  Steve." The soldier gets the sting of her wide blue eyes, slightly bewildered, slightly rushed, slightly annoyed at him for being this  _ridiculous_  gentleman  _all_  the time. She has to do this herself—this was somehow brought to her to try and attempt on her own,  _right? They want to talk to me._ She pinches her fingers tight around his fingers, squeezing. "Just give it a rest already!"

Steve blinks as if he's been slapped out of a dream. She's going. He swallows thickly.

_Just give it a rest already._

His skin tingles as she pulls away, slowly measuring her fingers across the crests and valleys of his bones, the rough joints of his knuckles. She squeezes his fingers once more.

_I said no, Steve._

"Excuse me," Beth's voice hoarsens self-consciously from how instantly she's raised her tone. She doesn't dare even look at Logan. "I'll call you when it's all over, okay, Steve?"

"Yeah," Steve tries to memorize the incline of her face, but there's no way in. "I hope it goes well."

She breathes in, buttons shifting down and up again.

She doesn't move to touch Steve again—she only walks forward. Steve can't bring himself to turn to watch her leave. Not with Logan's scrutiny, round and glinting, hurling towards the possibility of a turned back like bullets encased in a skull. He turns to face Logan, but continues to wear an empty mask of calm across his face. Logan rolls his eyes sternly over Beth's walk until the door opens and closes with a heavy crash to Steve's ears.

"Well," Logan raises a hand to motion over the server. "I'd  _never."_

* * *

Despite her best efforts not to even remotely feel any appreciation for Jane's aside, Natasha finds herself smirking. She crosses her ankles together effortlessly, lips pursing as if to study her own movement, black tights wrapping around her resilient thighs and into the hem of her knee-length, wool stitched skirt. The white tuffs around her wrists hide her Widow Makers—and Clint's prized arrow shaft—but that's for safe keeping.

"Really, Natasha, I was at my wits  _end_. Finally, I just told his  _completely_ idiotic grin, 'If you wanted to chew mint leaves—I'd be fine with that; I can make tea. If you wanted to carry around a jar of peppermints in public—" Jane raises her arm in a mocking show, lifting the crystal, blown glass glint of a weighted tumbler into the air—"Then  _by Odin's grace_ , so be it. I'd be  _fine_ with that—little kids will bombard you all through Times Square. But if you seriously want to watch t.v. with Clint and squeeze MintFresh toothpaste  _from the tube to snack on it?_  Fine. It's a kind of earth delicacy, you know. It's why we all use it every night. Delicious.'"

The three words fall from the spy's mouth richly, each syllable appreciating the exertion it takes to respond than to actually laugh. "That explains everything."

"Seems a little harsh—I think he takes everything you say as law." Darcy Lewis adds, a touch sympathetic.

"No," Jane huffs, touching her forehead to her wrist in remembrance of all the times she's had to explain the extremely mundane. "He's just literal. I thought it was cute at first, but oh my God." She takes a sip, swallows it down, and bonks the glass on the table. "Oh. My. God. It's just goes  _on."_  She fakes staring off into the abyss above Darcy's own pink-knitted curls. "I mean,  _I've_ seen the edge of our universe. I've been to another freakin' dimension. But…when they say that you stare into the abyss, and it stares back into you…I never thought I'd see—"

"Toothpaste?" Darcy prompts, violet petal lips caressing the edge of her own drink.

"Toothpaste," Jane agrees, rising her tumbler in toast to which Darcy gingerly smacks her glass against.

Across the hall, Beth wishes she knew what they were toasting to. She's excused herself to the bathroom about five minutes ago since they've arrived at the outside patio of the restaurant only to rip out her ribbon and wash her hands…and keep washing her hands, absolutely not stalling.

It's really cold. She really wishes they weren't sitting outside, but, it certainly is the most…secluded. The chairs actually have microfiber heating on their cushions that are tied to green wires that curl from the cracks in the sprinkles from the snow powdered sidewalk. There are hidden speakers nestled into the grey-ashened rocks encircled around the mesh of the hard, cold, black iron handles that firmly hold the chairs in place. The table itself is round, polished green, with a iron center piece to match that looks like someone smuggled a tiny piece from the MoMA.

Introductions before that were very inadvertent, which was probably for the best as Beth wasn't exactly prepared. As much as one could be prepared for Steve's girlfriends. Well, not  _girl_ friends, but. Well, Beth wasn't exactly sure how these completely diverse peas come to form such a pod.

Jane Foster, dark brunette twists flowing along the sides of her face to her shoulders, was the first to extend a handshake—her skin soft, but her firm grip supportive and clear. She wanted to be friends. She wanted to get to know Beth. Her eyes were the glow lamps of some kind of distant, ancient, Irish park—amber flames inside of white dusted walls that were set to burn from the downing of great, gnarled trees. If, perhaps, those branches held the apples of a forbidden knowledge. She was wearing, if Ronda were here to judge it, a pretty amazing solid rouge accented vest. A dark green pattern laced with silver bells crafted a word that said 'Starkicker.' She has khakis on as well, dark black, rolled up and held at the knee which highlighted the explosively tan wedge boots about her ankles.

Darcy Lewis was certainly the youngest—possibly even younger than herself, Beth could guess. She had an air of college detail about her—Just from listening to her at the distance, Beth could follow how her mouth so quickly moved, stringing along the pattern of sassy assumption with a clairvoyant eye for what Jane wanted, or needed, to hear. But even Darcy's stark black, square, hipster glasses perched finely over her nose couldn't knock the admiration in her shockingly grey eyes. They constantly rotated like an axis for a graph or a map. Two freshly poured, rocky pave roads bound to gaze up at Jane. Certainly there was more than just a best friend at Foster's heels, but a team for work ethic. Over the phone her slightly more low voice seemed strikingly like Ronda's—but in person, she seemed, if anything, held tighter to herself, neck wrapped in the hues of golden brown patches in a flowing scarf. Her arms pinned to her shapely tweet-qsue jacket. A cellphone glowed against the choppy wind—a snap of a picture in Beth's direction made the blonde freeze bit in her step. She smiled at Beth before keeping some distance, allowing a generous wave.

"First meetings—they only happen once, you know?" Her dark, wavy russet hair is subtle against her coat. The sprinkles of beauty marks moved along her lips and cheek as she smiled. She waved the phone at Beth. "Don't worry—you look cute."

But, for now, Beth had made a flawless escape to the bathroom. Now entering back into the table was the issue. Another shift and Natasha's elbow is hard across the table, supporting her chin gracefully as her emerald gem eyes cruise over the empty street. Beth feels her knees nervously start to bounce. She wants to move and not sit so still with them. It's hard to face their eyes.

"You okay over there?" Darcy called, already strongly aware of Natasha's fade to the background. Beth straightens up as she keeps her eyes to Natasha's cautious invite, her steps quick.

"Sorry—" Beth pulled out a chair that sat next to Jane's interested smile, but kept her in straight target to Natasha's two daggers-pupils sharpening behind her glassgaze. "There was a line."

"Well, we got you a drink—hope you like coffee." Natasha begins offhandedly, handing off a mug full of steam to the blonde. Beth watches her hand waver before she lets go of the handle. "What happened to your hands?"

Like she didn't know they were stained already, Beth looks down in alarm. "Uh—I broke a pen."

Natasha's gaze holds her for a heartbeat. "And?"

"And…that's what happened." Beth concludes bluntly, if rather anticlimactically.

Darcy's keen eyes try and swat Natasha's away—but they only merely change positions quickly over her phone keys to keep herself from the slightest temptation. She knows there's a topic change needed. She chooses a comment that'll hopefully close it. Even Darcy knows there's a very fine line between Natasha and forbearance. "Cool story, babe. Tell it again."

"Uh—" Beth lets out a nervous squeak. "I was scared—because of Steve's driving."

"His driving?" Jane cuts in. Her amber eyes seem to pipe inside, expanding in their warmth. "Was everything okay?"

Beth feels the prod of a poker to the small of her back as she narrowly weaves around the questions. She barely has time to think about how Steve would want this. Would he want them to know? Was that man on a motorcycle just not real anyway? Beth's takes in their eyes and bluffs her way through. "Oh! Of course, yeah! I just asked him to go fast—got my wish—and should've been more careful with what I wished for."

That earns a slight approval of Natasha's lips curved up. "It's like I warned you. Rogers is surprising."

Excited, Darcy and Jane exchange a single look that forces them to lean if just a bit more towards Beth. "So, speaking of surprises—please tell us about yourself!" Jane nudges Darcy ever so slightly in the arm just to make sure she knows that  _everything is new to them_. There was no file. There was no articulation of histories, or degrees, or traumatic events like the Battle of New York.

Beth backs up against the vertebrae of the chair for breathing room, even though they're all politely distanced. "Honestly, I'd much rather hear about all of you guys. And, maybe how you two know Steve." Her eyes flash apprehensively to Natasha. "Natasha's already told me about her and Steve's work relationship."

Jane's amber eyes glow like a heat lamp, making Beth sweat more. "We'll get to that. But, firstly, where are you from?"

Beth leans forward, a long finger toying with a bit of rust on the underside of the wavy, obsidian tint of the arm on the chair. She's usually fine with talking about where she's from but now it seems so…alien compared to here. To now. "Tulsa."

"Oklahoma? Really? That's pretty remarkable!" Jane chimes in smoothly. "I actually did a bit of work in Oklahoma when I was in college. I worked at the Nordic Antiquities at the Bergen War Memorial Museum in, well, Bergen." A hand flutters to her red outfit that's absolutely brilliant against the fluxing golden-green flourish in her eyes. She makes a thumbs up which she slowly points down at the blonde. "Believe me, people suck, the hours were slow, but it really get me interested in history—which, I suppose, ironically led me to be interested in the future—some time passed—and then I became a astrophysicist." Jane scratches at her hairline carefully with well-trimmed nails. "God, that's weird to think about."

"You  _worked_  there?" Beth asks in utter disbelieve. "My brother was obsessed with that place! We'd take family car rides and—we probably listened to those self-tour tapes so many times I can still hear it in my sleep!"

Jane's eyes somehow get bigger. "That's crazy! That is too funny! Did you have a favourite exhibit? Mine was the dome that anticipated how Nordic cultures charted and projected the stars. It was so...unmistakably irreplaceable. Like the art of calligraphy. A lot of skill that no one will probably put to animal skin again."

It had been so long since she'd really thought about her childhood enjoyment, it almost seemed like she was talking about an entirely different person. "I really loved their ships. Huge, but so ornate. They had great detail for design, those pillagers."

"Have you ever been on a boat?" Darcy asks with a slight air that's nodding at Jane.

"No," Beth says instantly. "Not at all. I was more dry land and horses. Water. I don't know. I dressed up my bathroom like the ocean though. It almost seems like this imaginary place to me."

_I have a kinda…this fear of the ocean_ , Steve's voice is a whisper in her mind.

Natasha's eyes dart slightly towards Jane to which Jane stubbornly keeps a polite focus on Beth, and Beth alone, perturbed at Natasha's silky control.  _It's fine. It's obviously done_ , the brunette wants to blurt. "That's adorable. Has Steve seen it?"

Beth can't help but blush. Her eyes leapt to, of all people, Natasha for a bit of help. Could she talk about what had happened?  _Ugh,_  this was so hard to do. "He said that he liked my turtles."

Darcy perks up, but her eyes remain composed on Beth. "Oh—so  _that's_ what the kids are calling them these days?"

A shock to her system, Beth stutters a laugh, her head thrown back in surprise. "Oh my God—Darcy, no!"

Jane looks distantly coy as well, her pale lips opening daringly despite the freeze. "That's a phrase you'll be saying  _a lot_. Believe me."

"They're just jealous that they didn't think of it first." Darcy says slowly, a smudge prideful.

Natasha angles her lips to puff at a fly-away bang from her face. "Darcy, don't be proud of that."

Grey eyes flock to green. "Yet you're proud of how you practically push Barton around?"

An eye roll of ever potent descant. "'Push around' is not the correct term, Darcy."

"Oh, I beg to differ."

"Do you?" Natasha purrs smartly. She quickly brings out her ankle to hook around Darcy's chair, and pulls instantly forward, the edge of the table suddenly hugging Darcy's chest. "That's pushing around." Then she shifts backwards, easily moving the assistant back into perfect resting position. "I simply dictate where I need him to be at the right moment when he isn't fast enough."

"Offfph," Darcy exhales loudly. "'Kay, got it."

Beth isn't sure to laugh or to try and think about how quickly Natasha can change from movement to a statue of poise. "Uh—who's Barton?"

Natasha glances at Beth, and her eyes seem clouded in how to respond. "My new field partner. Since Steve's leave."

"Oh," Beth responds dumbly, suddenly extremely aware of how close she is to talking about war and images that she can't repress. "That's nice."

"He isn't. He's distracting. But I suppose that's his job." Natasha continues, unexpectedly open. "But you can judge that for yourself. I suppose."

Beth feels pinned.  _What was a challenge? Or is there someone possibly more intense than Natasha?_  
  
"So—Natasha mentioned how you and Steve met." Jane pops the tight bubble building between spy and waitress, her voice taking a low tone. "Sounds pretty scary." A hand moves to touch at Beth's arm. "I'm sorry that it went down that way."

Darcy looks like she wants to burst out with something to add, but she looks at the crestfallen change in Beth's small, sad frown and lets the words fade into the cool air like a puff from a cigarette.

Beth locks her fingers together over the mug. "Well—the first date was really, really nice." She smiles at the memory of the flash dancing, the lights floating on the pier, at holding Steve's hand. It had been so long since she'd held someone's hand. "But uhm," her heart flutters inside of her throat anxiously, trying to accept the completely smeared phrase that's gathered up the majority of her 'attacks'. "Thank you."

"But I just want to say, for Steve's sake, that he is such a wonderful guy," Jane illuminates easily. "Seriously. Knowing him has just…it's been such an eye-opener. It's true that he's a little awkward—"

"Particularly around women," Natasha interrupts suddenly. Her dark eyes float to Beth's, and for once they seem finitely amused. "He absolutely refused to call me by the first name, even during our field work. 'Miss Romanoff' this, and 'Miss Romanoff' that. I was losingmy  _mind_  with how redundant he was. Finally I coaxed him to just call me Miss Natasha—and finally, Natasha. It was  _long_  process."

Beth smiles, but it feels slightly dampened to her lips over Steve's rather punctual formality. She almost wants to cringe at how it came out.  _Give it a rest, Steve_. It's like a sharp scratch across her heart that she's carved herself. Hands move towards her hair, flustered. She hates it that she gets so stressed out that she just snaps. He didn't deserve that. But still. It was a frustrating call to a silence response. She's glad that she's said something now. Almost.

"Can I ask you guys a question?"

Darcy smiles so happily, her shoulders rising up it's like she's won the lottery—but before Beth can ask why, it's Jane who responds.

"Sure—fire away, Beth."

The blonde swallows. Her heart feels like it's doing flips at what she's about to even dare question. It just seems so…insanely strange to even bring up.  _And of all the real topics you could be asking about, Ore,_ her thoughts spite. The metal panic button flashes in her mind's eye. She opens her mouth.

"Does Steve ever seem like he's…" she tries rephrasing it a few more times in her head before she finishes. "Like…he sometimes…talks…funny?"

The question seems dead in the water. After a few seconds of stunned staring from the ladies around the table, Beth thinks that maybe she's made it all up in her head. She would totally believe that she made it up in her head and is somehow actually accepting it as truth. But then she recalls Ronda's fingers digging into her shoulders in the break room. Beth had mentioned this before even to her best friend. But still.

_I'm crazy. This is crazy._

Darcy is the one that dares to break the silence. Her eyes knock at Jane's own.  _God, someone say something! Look at the poor girl!_  "You mean…if he has brogue or something?"

"No, it's not an accent!" Beth protests exasperatingly. "He just sounds so…"

"Just, old fashioned?" Jane quirks back, her eyes dancing in intrigue.

Beth can feel the nervous droplets easing down her back. "Uh. Well, basically. He didn't even know who Elvis Presley was."

Darcy chuckles, but she keeps herself mainly looking down at her phone, and it's hard for Beth to read from her expression if she's just checking Memes or what. "Sorry."

"Has Steve told you anything at all about his childhood? How he was raised?" Natasha asks smoothly.

"He has—it seemed really rough. He didn't have a lot and with both of his parents passing." A pause. "I don't even know how he does it."

The spy zeroes in tightly. "How he does what, exactly?"

Beth stiffens in her chair. "He just seems so good natured, and he's…really funny, too. I just can't help but think that I'd fester about that my whole life. I'm lucky my parents are in good health." Her voice softens. "I admire that about him. He's so honest, and yet he's still so eager to help other people." The table remains quiet as Beth finishes. "I guess I feel like I lost that about myself."

Jane's lips grind uncomfortably against one another. "Steve isn't the perfect picture of mental health, Beth." Her amber eyes flicker darkly. "But you know this. He's been depressed for a while. I mean, heck, I didn't know Steve even had a sense of humor. He doesn't—" She looks at Beth and quickly negates her tense. "He didn't laugh."

A hand taps at her glass methodically as she thinks. She can't go into how she's heard screaming at night, how  _all_  of them have, from Clint, or Tony—occasionally even Natasha herself—but to hear  _Steve's_  strangled cry, so much  _louder_ and  _angrier_  and  _scared_  than the rest, cut off so suddenly would send Jane spiraling to the door, knees rug burned red instantly as Thor's great arm tightens around her waist. His heavy breathing to the shell of her ear, his voice steady in concern. His blue eyes seeming to glow in the dark like she was a month to flame, pulled back into herself.  
 _  
Do you think he screams for you, dear Jane?_  His quiet, deep voice reminiscent of a far off thunderstorm guiding through her panic.

Jane quickly snaps out of her pause. " _I_ really didn't know because he just seemed to be so quiet."

Darcy speaks up. "Quiet people are quiet people," she says gently. "There's another friend of ours that's just like that, too."

"Lots of friends," Beth manages playfully. "Makes me feel like I should've kept in touch with more folks."  _Back when 'going out' meant not battling just to go into work before I'd get fired. Again._  Her pulses flickers. "But Steve—Couldn't he have gone to see a therapist? I was planning to—"

"Not an option." Natasha deadpans.

"Why?" Beth demands hotly. "How?"

"Because Steve doesn't accept it himself." Natasha allows darkly. "Unless that changes, that is not an option."

_Oh._  Beth feels herself suddenly tied to the weight of the conversation tossed around her ribcage, sinking her heart. The shadowy shattered frame of Steve's tear soaked face echoes in the back of her mind.

_I think something's wrong with me,_ Steve's voice whispers again.

_No, you're still burning up. Must be the chills,_ She had eased tenderly.

The defeat in his eyes swallows her whole in the darkness. _I wish that were true._

"Steve was raised very strictly, in a way." Natasha begins, her lips slightly open. "Very polite, collected, and you don't talk about topics unsuited, fears annotated, or qualms. Particularly about one's self."

"Or behave upwardly towards a woman," Darcy adds with a distinct nod.

Beth smiles carefully. "He is  _very_  polite. But sometimes it just seems so completely—"

"Wrapped around your finger?" Darcy bats.

"—exhausting." Beth confesses. "I mean, behaving like that, all the time? You guys obviously see it too."

Jane and Natasha exchange a short look. Natasha curls her lips in an odd curiosity. Jane is one that takes the metaphorical hit.

"Well, I for one think he enjoys it. I think it's a…I don't know, a comfort?"

Beth flushes. "A comfort?"

"Yeah," Darcy agrees instantly, as if that was what she had been searching to say this whole time. "I could totally see that. He's an introvert. Anything helps like that, even if it's silly. And I mean, you're kinda the first woman he's brought around. This is pretty huge for him."

Beth brings up a palm to hold over her eye, feeling a tight throb behind them.  _You didn't know any better,_ she reasons with herself _, but_ wow _, you didn't know._  
  
Jane watches the blonde's expression fall. "You know what would really make his day? Maybe say something like that back. Like, as old fashioned as you can get. I think it'd be really sweet."

"Considering how he's surprised you, it'll surprise  _him_  for sure," Darcy asides for good measure.

Beth cracks a smile behind her hand. "Thanks, guys. That's nice of you to tell me. And, uhm. First girl that he's brought around? You're kidding." Beth's eyes dart from woman to woman, but their expressions are unchanging. "You're  _not_ kidding." A deliberating pause of skepticism. "That's impossible."

"You have  _no idea_  how much that word has lost its meaning, Beth," Jane says expertly. "You're the first. Case and point."

_"No,"_  Beth protests. She finds herself blushing a light pink all the way down her neck. "I mean—I promise that I think the world about Steve's personality but—Jesus, have you  _looked_  at him?" Beth eyes Darcy's increasing smirk suspiciously. "He's..."

"Built? Tough? Ripped? Probably able to make the dexterity of  _diamonds_  jealous of that gun show?" Darcy's effortlessly excitable lips pout out over exaggeratedly giddy tosses out like machine made to describe men. When Beth doesn't add on, her passion simmers out. " You're losing me."

Beth's mouth is open at her in shock. "…Ridiculously handsome?"

Darcy sighs. "Not even close. The words you're looking for are 'Sexy as fu—"

Jane  _burst_  out laughing to overtake Darcy's rain of adjectives. "Yes, Beth, you are, indeed, the first."

Darcy's eyes scurry to Jane's. "Some girls just get  _all_  the luck."

Beth blushes deeper, craning to put the spotlight on someone else. "How about you, Jane?"

"What about me?" The brunette's red lips unfold. "Who am I dating, you mean?"

"Yeah—please, get Darcy  _off_  of my case."

Another laugh, her teeth showing through, white on white. "I'm dating Donald Blake." A sudden awakened pause. "I think you've met him?"

"I have," Beth says, the memory of the golden-haired giant all too clear. His serene eyes watching her cry. Wrapping a coat around her blood stained body. Carrying Steve's lifeless— _Stop_ , She blinks. She pushes the thoughts away, and tries to make a joke. "Wait—are we  _all_  dating, like, superheroes here? I mean,  _come on."_

Natasha scoffs and mutters under her breath. Beth smiles guilty at the table's surface. "Sorry, just, everyone is in such good shape—including you three! I don't even know how to feel sometimes."

Before Jane can respond Darcy dashes in. "You  _should_  feel like getting Steve to take his shirt off," she says distractingly. She raises her curvaceous eyebrows flirtatiously. "Have you?"

Beth pulls back. "Um."

Darcy leans closer. "What? Any good kissing stories?" Darcy quirks into a frown for a second. " _Is_  Steve a good kisser?"

"We kissed. Once." Beth says apprehensively. "When he was basically blacked out."

"R-romantic," Darcy stumbles sarcastically, her tone slipping from its beam, faltering to try and make light of the dread in those blue eyes. Awkwardly she takes a  _long_  slip from her drink. Then, nonchalantly avoidant of her mistake, she turns her attention to the taller brunette. "Jane, have you told Beth here how I hit Donald with a car?"

Beth's eyes go wide.  _"What?"_

Darcy's smirk is blooming violet-soft in an icy world. "Twice."

Natasha sighs beside her. "Darcy, don't be proud of that."

Jane seems to deflate in her seat. "Don't worry, sweetie, he was fine." She smiles as if to catch herself from floating all the way down the scale of her pride that Darcy's tried to debunk. "And he likes you, a lot."

Beth tries not to latch onto that hope. She isn't sure if any of them like her, ink stains and all. "Really?"

"T—" She stutters. "Don has a good first impression of people. And, you know what? I agree with him."

Darcy nods happily along with Jane, and Beth feels her knees slowly stop bouncing in place.

"Th-thanks." Beth says breathlessly. She feels her smile widen gratefully. "I can see why Steve made such nice friends."

Soon, Beth finds herself scooting closer to the table. "So, Darcy—wanna tell me about yourself? About that…car?"

The plucky young scientist sits taller in her seat as if waiting to be summoned. Her grey eyes are alight with mischief. "Darling, I thought you'd  _never_  ask."

* * *

They're so engrossed in conversation that when a narrow-shouldered shadow falls over the table, it's Jane that reacts to a familiar stance of a pair of hawk eyes observing the girls from across the way.

He clears his throat carefully. With all those heated eyes on him, he suddenly wishes he brought plan B: Banner. "I was told there would be food."

A pair of carefully watching blue eyes glance over at the archer. A ink-stained hand reaches out to pull a plate towards where he's leaning. "It's a little cold, sorry to say."

He snatches up a biscuit, places it to his lips and crunches loudly. "It's December. What else could I expect?"

"Manners," Natasha begins in a chilly tone. "But that was just me."

"Good afternoon,  _Miss_  Romanova," Clint appeals, still chewing.

Natasha's glare is unwaveringly met by the contemptible austerity on the man's face as he swallows. "Field Agent Clint Barton. Barton—Beth Ore."

"All these titles," Beth declares wishfully, "Can't we just say our names and be done with it?"

The stress lines in his brows lighten as soon as he glances at Beth—a slight grin—then they race to Natasha. "Nice to finally put a name to a face. So—can I bust this tea party?"

"We're drinking brandy," Darcy deadpans with a wiggle of her tumbler, one hand flying over the keys to her phone, the other to hold the glass in the air for a refill.

"Great. I was just thinking what could be finer on this freezing December day with more cold fighting to get inside of my body. That'll be just fine." A quick glance around the table. "Where's Steve?"

"He'll be along," Jane says brightly. "Sit down. Beth was just telling us about that new James Bond movie."

Clint shifts his mouth down into a scowl of approval. "Huh. You know, I always felt I could play that guy just fine."

A chair screeches out loudly as it is dragged across the cement. Natasha's bottle green eyes glint at the archer to sit. "Barton, just shut up."

* * *

 

* * *

 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should we talk about the weather?  
> (Hi, hi, hi)
> 
> Should we talk about the government?  
> (Hi, hi, hi, hi)
> 
> "Pop Song 89", R.E.M. (Pop Goes Punk version~)
> 
>  
> 
> AN: Merry Christmas /Happy Holidays! Thank you again!


	31. Bar Crawl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 32: Bar Crawl  
> AN: *fixed 1/24/14 for messed up WW2 dates thanks to Endgame65 for seriously knocking me back in line.
> 
> Happy New Year, guys! I swear I'm going to churn out these chapters like no bodies business. I'm real sorry I haven't. Anyone else feel super stressed out? I feel super stressed out.
> 
> So to help let out my own suffering I made Steve suffer. LOGIC
> 
> Here. Have two chapter updates in one night. (expect the other like, a few hours after the first part) I'm sorry its sort've cut off—but I had to split it or you guys would be here all night. Night. Five tests in one day can't Can't function Help.
> 
> (also there's Peggy in this chapter so that helps. I just found that Marvel One Shot of Peggy kicking ass. I can't even handle it. my feelings.)

 

* * *

He's been staring at them for so long that it's hard to not imagine them any other way. They're atomic. They're chemicals. They are trench gas, contained. They're explosive. They're too close to all that alcohol. He keeps one hand firmly around the near-frosty droplets on his glass, the other drumming his fingers. He looks up again. Sees it all, again.

Before him is a sign made of bright, risky, neon made out of fine glass tubes that turn themselves in and out like worms; tiny animals scratching and digging through the ashy, wooden cage of the walls. Beautiful, fragile maggots that drag themselves carefully through Steve's mind, where he has to pretend to not think about bombs or fallout or terrible, bright bangs. He pulls his blue gaze up.

Black soot lines the ceiling where grit-washed lamps buzz lowly in the causal din. Steve keeps blinking his eyes hard, passing time by reading out the many bolted signs that sit in between the neon words. The indigo colour backlights flashes the vibrant display of bottles lining the back of the bar.  
 __  
[24 hours in a day.  
24 beers in a case.  
Coincidence?  
Maybe.]

He follows the sign's reasoning, poises the beer to his lips, and takes a very long swig. The beer tastes bitter this time of morning. He takes another.

A melting, pensive click ignites the long, dark orange finger of a match. It floats ghostly through the rest of the straggling patrons. Steve can practically taste the cigar smoke on the back of his throat, and Logan's not even back to his adjacent stool yet.

And then Logan is, with the tips of his fingers stained yellow from swollen bits of tar. He's smiling at the soldier, but it's all for show. He's known this man for only about two hours, and Steve can tell that Logan never so much as really smiles as he just can't help but bare his teeth. He has the kind of anger that's so skin-deep Steve wonders if the guy was really serious about being a veteran.  _He's a mutant_ , Steve tries to reason,  _but it doesn't mean the guy's above packing heat._  A roll of those coal eyes. Steve thinks the man is a hair-trigger away from glassing someone.  _Possibly even me._

"So, you obviously must be the most talkative of the Avengers." Logan streamlines the sarcasm into a hearty puff that lingers through his nose like a bull's irritated snort.

Steve clenches his fingers palely over the smooth, wet glass. "That honour belongs to Stark."

Logan gives a single nod of consideration. Licks his lips. "Met that bastard once."

Steve keeps his eyes to the sign. He doesn't know how Logan's led him here. He wishes he were somewhere else. Anywhere else. A thin, shaking chill clambers up his spine with every secretive mention of their identities, but he's already used one excuse to keep Logan quiet. Now he was checkmated into a quiet hole-in-the-wall so close to Christmas Eve and not even the loneliest of soul was alert enough to take heed.

And then Steve realises what Logan's said, and his eyes widen. "Stark knows you?"

"When you can't stand sitting around, you meet people," Logan says shortly. He waves the bartender over wordlessly, tosses a large coin, and is slid a thin bottle. The cap is still on. Steve raises a brow at how to drink it without shattering the case. "Good people and…worse."

Steve taps the edge of his glass. "And Stark's the worst?"

Logan's laughter is as guttural and choppy as his low speaking tone. He puffs out his chest as he grasps the neck of his bottle for hazardous support. "He wishes."

Steve sighs out through his nose. "Then who  _is_  the worst?"

"An' opinion is an opinion is an opinion, kid," Logan remarks wryly. "I'm just glad I don't have to work with him."

Steve feels his teeth click together each time Logan's called him 'kid'. He pools another long sip into his mouth and rolls the dense liquid on his tongue.  _Just glad I don't have to work with you,_  Steve finds himself harboring back. Although, the blue neon light flickers dutifully from the bar-rack, and Steve can't help but only see Stark's ghostly waltz through the metal darkness of the Tower, a blue ball of light beaming from the center of his chest. Steve tries to shake his head away from hearing Tony  _screaming_ ; Those amazing, flying, bolted pieces parts through the air to their master. Tony making the move to fight.

_You're poisoning yourself_ , the soldier can hear his own whisper to the billionaire.

There is a drink in his hand. Steve feels his own hypocrisy thickening the foam in his beer.

His gaze drops to study the bar. The cracks in the table are magnified at once, gaping crags that he's had to physically leap over more than a few times in his young life. It reminds him of saving Bucky, sprinting across the literal pit of Hell. Steve has to keep forcing himself to look up when Logan stirs back to life.

"What're you thinking about now, slick?"

The buzzing from the lamps is just getting louder. Steve glances off in another direction. "Just that the last time I was in a bar I tried bleeding it dry until I couldn't move. And that was… _too_  long ago."

"Huh," Logan hardly acknowledges Steve's disinterest except with a slight tilt of his head. "Last time I was in a bar was…." He glances at a large, ornate clock on the far wall. "18 hours ago."

Steve glances back at the mutant to check if the man is being entirely serious. Logan takes another puff, dosses the ashes, and looks back at Steve as if expecting a conversation about the weather.

_Well, that explains that_ , Steve decides easily.

"Did that work out for you, kid?" Logan asks unexpectedly.

There's another tight pang in his gut over the word 'kid'. Steve washes it away with another gulp of beer. "Work out in what way?"

"You." Logan lingers the cigar for too long and has to brush the ashes off of the lap of his jeans. "Gettin' blitzed."

Steve shrugs, and the way it feels so foreign to him is a little unnerving. He used to answer nearly anything with a simple yes, no,  _shrug_. What else did he possibly have to say? What could be said to those fresh-round faces that keep shoving video cameras in his face like he was in a theater show all over again? It all became some impenetrable spectacle of his old life. A practical joke stretched far too long with no one laughing to tell him it's going to go away.  _Captain Rogers—it's an honor to meet you, sir; how do you feel about the 21_ _st_ _century? Captain Rogers—did you, or did you not, leave the hospital without signing out?_ The only one that made him speak was Director Fury's calm, cold, collected… _Captain Rogers—how to do you feel about the Avengers Initiative?  
_  
 _Nice… joke_ , Steve whispered to himself as he laid up, entirely awake, for the first time in decades.  _Sur-prise. We're… kidding_ … _You're so… gullible, Rogers.._

He blinked his eyes open-closed. Open-closed. The hospital bed's ceiling was the same as it was in 1941. Soon it swirled and the sides of his face were hot and wet.  _Why did the damn ceiling have to be the same?!_

Open-  
closed.

_Captain Rogers?_ The man with the eye patch is deafening.  _Your country needs you. The world needs you._

There is a tinted, unearthly, laugh track playing in the silence that sounds like someone gasping for air. It's not him. It will never be him. He's awake now, and this isn't a bad dream.  _Joke's on you,_  the dead men laugh, rising from their frozen graves all the way from DC to Great Britain.

_Of course I accept._  Steve said unshakably. Fury smiles somehow, like this was all something God granted against all odds—just like the implausibility of a man walking on the surface of the moon. Steve mimics the expression, hollow inside, hollow outside. Fury's strong fingers move to clasp his shoulder as they rise.

Steve knows the drill. It's a curtain call. Play nice, or no dice—and he didn't have a card to bet that Fury wasn't a nice man.

Steve extends a hand.

Final bow.

They shake.

The capping from Fury's subordinates sounds like Tommy gun fire aimed for his head.

Curtains.

* * *

Steve blinks back to reality, and Logan is still waiting for an answer. The fella doesn't seem too terribly worried about rushing Steve, though, as the cigar length is significantly shorter than it was seconds ago. Alarmed, the soldier rolls his shoulders back, listening for the relieving pop that never comes.  _When I did that ever stop that?_

The soldier brings his eyes to Logan in slight shame. Then eyes to the bar. Eyes to the neon explosion.

_It worked out like a kick in the head,_ Steve seethes _. It worked out knowing that I was alive, and empty, and exhausted, and I was going to be this seemingly perfect machine that couldn't stop. I wouldn't let me stop—and even when I had full right to_ try _—when I broke bottles across the tables and mixed drinks and chugged until the only thing I could taste was my own hysteria. I still couldn't feel a_ thing.

And then she came. A grey ghost amongst his destruction. Her dark brown eyes weary and stern. She moved the way Steve thought Kipling's Bagheera skulked the jungle. Always lingering around the edges of his mind, posited, careful and watching. She leaned off of a collapsed chair, nails pulling at the strings stuck to the power on her cheeks.  _Hell, maybe she'd been there the whole time—watchin' me tear apart the bomb shelter like I wanted to blow away myself._

The outrage in her voice is antagonizing. "I  _told_  you, Rogers, that your body wouldn't possibly allow you to get—"

"I know! I get it!  _I get it!"_  Steve rounds back on her, flat out bellowing. He gets a good look of her measured pitted look and softens his voice. "Doesn't mean a guy can't keep trying."

She pauses, if only for a second, before she fires back: "You do realise that, regardless of your lack of intoxication, you're  _going_  to throw up." Her red lips widen to take just how  _much_  Steve's sunk the entire bar. "You  _pill_." She spats in distaste, as if she expected something nobler from him. It's the closest thing Steve's heard her say next to an actual swear. Peggy wasn't one for wearing insults on her sleeve. She was all about action. But, still, she stayed where she stood—eyes wide and face flushing as if struck that she hadn't a clue of what to do next.

"You—pillock! The last time I came in here this place was a least  _manageable_  and you were sitting at a table." A click of her heels, a shake of her head, dark hair taught in disapproval. "I understand you're upset but—well." She seems to falter. She edges closer. "Now, it's just a matter of time, I suppose."

Steve stares at her hard, his entire body  _quivering_  from how badly he wants to start sobbing, but he can't. He just  _can't._  Maybe if she hadn't come, but it's all too clear she isn't going to leave. He can't cry in front of her, but even Steve knows it's just another excuse.

He looks at the bottle in his hand, raises it up in mock salute towards her, and downs it. Her teeth grit together, and her lips wobble in vainly controlled rage. Her tongue lashes deafly at Steve, but he can't hear her over the desperate mouthfuls of a man trying to drown.  
 _  
Isn't everything just a matter of time, Peg?_

* * *

The pain of breaking your own ribs inside of your own body, through the act of dry heaving, is something Steve understands. Really, it's something a lot of his  _Howling Commandos_  understand.

Having those same ribs heal themselves just in time for you to sputter again and tear them back open at your device, however, is a circle of Hell that Steve wasn't aware existed.

He's on his knees wrenching across that ashy bar, and for a while, Peggy just silently listens to his gasps. Steve isn't honestly sure how long he's been doing this—it just won't stop. He'd vomit up his heart and the rest of his organs if he wasn't absolutely positive that  _still_ wouldn't kill him.

* * *

When he's aware that she's there, leaning over him, he can't bring himself to think of anything to say between fits. She was right. But, women, really, they're nearly always right—he can't think of anything particularly original to say on the matter. She swiftly kicks a few bottles away before cozying herself near his shoulder. A hand reaches under to try and hold apart of him together. The other runs the tips of her nails along his back. It's hard to keep the movement caring, as every time Steve coughs, the whole system knocks her arm away. It's maybe hours of this kind of torture, and it's draining.

* * *

Eventually, Steve has to say something.

"Peg—if —the—Devil—ev'er—made'a—woman-that had your—scorn—" Steve gasps, fingers trying to hold his chest from exploding out. "—you'd chase 'er—halfway down to Hell—and tell Satan himself ta—keep her there."

Peggy's legs crossed knowingly, but her hands stay to the small of his back. "Is that a compliment?" She asked sweetly, her voice low and slightly nice if he weren't re-cracking his ribs.

"Ju-st—what-I-th-ink."

"Mm," She mused lightly. Her red lips leaned close to his ear. "And what else do you think of me, Captain Rogers?"

Another cough could rips him in two, he  _swears_  by it—only to feel his bones reset themselves once more. Glutton for punishment. Steve swore that this wasn't nearly the retribution he deserves for not saving Bucky. For not saving his mother. For not being honest and upfront with Peggy. "Do—don't think—this is the—be-st—time—Peg."

" _Au contraire_ ," Her voice purrs, the tones of her softly rising and falling British accent curling perfectly into the French diction. "I think this is the perfect time."

"You're tuff," Steve grits at her. "You're plenty fit for—this.  _Ngh_ —" He stops a whimper from escaping, curls up his knees to his forehead.

Her laugher sounds hot and angry through the snapping of bone. "Back in England, that sentence means something else  _entirely_."

"For—give me." Steve wants to chuckle at how upset he keeps making her, but he's too scared that he's going to start bawling. "On my knees—an'—I still—can't please—a—woman."

"Oh, but didn't you?" Her tone darkens—Steve glances up for half a second to soak in the depth of her deep brown eyes. "The flirt of yours gossiped that you're so humble to pretend like you've not faintest idea to what you're doing to her mouth."

"Pretend," Steve hoarsely repeats. "Sure."

"Oh for Heaven's sake," Her voice snaps with annoyance. "Try breathing in through your nose, and out your mouth." Her hand slides up to correct the angle of his head—it doesn't help the swell of sides or the blinding ache of his stomach muscles.

"T-hanks," He forces a breath, presses himself down along the floor, wills himself to black out.

No such luck. Peggy's still busily moving her fingers to prod at his sides—" _g'ow!_ " Steve finally pushes away from her. She keeps coming at him, undeterred. He's begging her with his eyes to stop, but the will in those dark storm clouds could direct lightening.

"I told you," She practically growls the phrase, her voice smooth as cooling volcanic glass. She raises dirt-raggled fingers to push her hair out of her face once more—and Steve's hearing catches a few mutters of "Completely idiotic—stubborn—American."

He closes his eyes tight, curls in around himself, and, seemingly, this holds Peggy's nurse-like nudges. "She—didn't mean—anything, Peg. I—was—surprised."

He can't look at her. He just tries to breathe. It's so hard to breathe since Bucky's death. It's so hard to see straight.  _It should've been me_ , Steve's mantra is hitting its sharp, pitiful hitch.  _It should've been me._

A pause. Her voice is brittle when she finally speaks. Steve's ears can travel the tremble of her tone, refracting only to tact on the 'too', as if…as if she just  _might_ believe him.

"Well—I was surprised, too."

Steve keeps his face to the floor. Eventually his arms give out. He doesn't care that he's coughing into the wood, or that his insides might as well be melting. All at once he's aware of that her nails still haven't left the back of his head—haven't clawed him like she could've when she fired a few rounds into his shield. But they're just there, rubbing against his back, hair, and back down again. Steve hopes that Peggy doesn't realise just how calming her presence can actually be, least she get a tip off and stop entirely. It's the only thing keeping Steve in control of his ragging breathing.

* * *

"I'm sorry you had to see me like this." Steve finally mutters to nothing but the blank wood. He heaves again, gives up, and buries his head into the crook of his arm. Darkness.

Her fingers stop, and it's only then at the nape of his neck Steve realises that they're shaking. They've been shaking.

She's scared.

His own eyelashes flicker quickly against his skin. They feel raw from how hard he's pushed at his lids in attempt to shut out the image of Bucky's fall.

Steve's never seen Peggy Carter scared of anything in his near year of knowing her. She's fearless. She's incorruptible. She makes his heart rattle around as brilliant as roman candle inside of his chest, sparking his mouth, burning up his brain into smoke and fog and adoration.

"So there's a flaw in the great American war machine," Peggy murmurs quietly, her direct British tone surprisingly gentle. Her hands continue their pace, a thumb tracing the nape of his neck once more. "It only means that humanity is leaking through."

* * *

Logan harshly twists the bud of his cigar into an ashtray—the movement snaps Steve out of it. Never to be without something to bite on, Logan shimmies out a new Cuban from his pocket, tears off the plastic with his teeth, and lights it with another match. So much smoking. Steve wonders if his…skill…has something to do with fire, or his nose.

"You said you were in…" Steve can't bring himself to say World War II. Not out loud in this bar. Maybe not out loud anywhere that wasn't 1945. And how far away that all seems…

"August 6th, 1943," Logan says through a drag of his cigar. "The 39th ."

Cold fingers snap tight around a body of glass.  _"How?"_

"Finally. A decent question. Alright. I'll bite. I'll tell you."

Steve doesn't know what to make of Logan anymore. The guy simply chews the cigar nib in silence. Steve gladly finishes the rest of his beer. It leaves his tongue numb from the cold, and he hates how it feels like ice is constantly just behind the back of his throat. Will the feeling of drowning in a frigid sea ever go away?

"How old do you think I am, Rogers?" Logan wades through his thoughts. "Really."

A once over reveals nothing to Steve. He was never good at those guessin' games where you named a fella's weight or birthday back at Coney. No one is a mirror. If anything, Steve thought that everyone was exactly the opposite of what he pictured them to be.

"I dunno. Thirties? Early forties?"

Logan flares his nostrils. "Close enough. And how old are you, kid?"

Steve lifts his empty glass for the bartender's attention. "Old enough to drink."

The mutant's sneer is more or less a twisted frown along his grizzled chin. "I don't doubt that."

"That makes one of us," Steve mutters lowly, dragging his eyes back to Logan. "You said you were going to explain yourself."

Rough, calloused knuckles rattle the wood attentively and, wordlessly again the barkeep slides over two shot glasses. Steve's keeps his expression weary, but he can't help but feel for the idea that Logan wasn't kidding about knowing his way around a bar stool. It's actually a tad impressive, considering that Steve feels obstinately ignored next to his still empty drink.

Logan hoists up the cheap glass to run his haggard fingertips over the chips in the design. Curiously, he raises the edge to his nose and gives an honest to God  _sniff._  Steve has trouble keeping his own lips from screwing themselves up in revulsion.

"Bah," Logan growls halfheartedly. "They just don't make these things like they used to." Quickly he reaches over the bar, blindingly feeling for a bottle. When he pulls back Steve takes notice of the strange thin rips in the label as if Logan knew exactly what pulp was used by a bottle's maker, chipped nails digging into the neck. "Much better."

"Shouldn't you—" Steve begins quietly, but Logan quickly snaps the top of the whiskey and leans back, pulls a long, deep swing straight into his mouth. His yellow teeth clench tightly around the coloured glass. Steve's stomach drops. He discreetly plans out the shadows of the bar to find that no one is looking. Enigmatically, the silence is only broken by Logan's loud, measured swallows humming through the soldier's sharp earing.

The dark liquid is nearly to the middle of the bottle by the time Logan comes up for air. A large arm reaches up to slide the back of his hand noisily across his lips. The guy doesn't even  _flitch._  Without even looking at Steve, Logan thrusts the bottle back out towards him. Steve's arm isn't his own when he grasps the weight of the bottle and pulls it out of Logan's hand. It's inexplicably automatic; a muscle memory so old that Steve can picture the ash-covered basement bars with water-damaged, wooden boards collapsed inwards where ghosts sang in slurred French to drown out the silence where bombs once stormed in deafening arms rest themselves over the bar as Logan leans forward again, eyes closed. Steve's fingers clutch over the cool, smooth bottle, feeling strangely uneasy.  _The guy just downed a bottle of Whiskey and didn't bat an eye_ , Steve tells himself as if the obvious statement would help him understand.

Suddenly Logan opens one dark eye to peer out from shaggy, greasy black hair. "You gonna ogle me like a pin-up girl, or you gonna drink?"

Steve continues to stare. "How are you not on the floor?"

The eye closes, but that nasty smile opens. "Bein' a mutant means a lotta things to a lotta different people, Rogers." Logan flickers easily. He pauses suddenly. His lips tighten in carefully chosen words. "Sometimes they scream at ya, or throw ya out theirhostel, or sometimes they're so obsessed the hold rallys for our rights. To me, the biggest kick in the pants is that I can't get drunk, but….ah," He grumbles around, spins the yet-to-be-opened bottle on the bar. "Sometimes I can  _almost_  feel it."

The bottle in Steve's hand nearly slips from his grasp. "Never?"

Now it's Logan's turn to look at him rather peculiarly. "Hrm. Not 'never', perhaps. Just a  _hell've_  lot more than half a bottle of Jack Daniels."

Steve stares down the neck of the bottle like it's a gun barrel, bewildered. Steve never thought he'd find a single person that would feel something as incidental as drinking like he did. "I can't either."

Logan nods as if bored by Steve's serious confession. "I  _know._  Why'd you think I handed you the rest of that bottle? I'm not an idiot. I'm just gonna clear out the rest of this place since Fury's footing the bill. I figure you should, too."

Split and fractured, Steve's reflection in the clear glass calls his expression out in a furious of spite. "Fury's bill, eh?"

"Yup. And what's more, Fury has some keen interest in you, Rogers. Your 'motivations', as he put it."

Steve slowly raises a blonde brow. "Isn't that classified?"

Logan laughs grimly. "D'ya think I give a damn about what's classified? He sent me to talk to you. Not beat off to S.H.I.E.L.D. policies."

"So what do you have to say to me, Logan?"

For once, those sharp jowls seem at a loss for words. He sniffs loudly. An eye twitches. Thick fingers suddenly close tight over the Logan's chin, buying time. "There really ain't no easy way to put this." He closes his eyes again. "Gimmie a second."

Steve slowly tips the bottle over and into his empty mug to finish it off. The airy pop of the liquid sounds cheery in the gloom. Black eyes watch the bottle slowly drain.

"I have to come at it from a different approach, I guess." Logan finally begins again. He clears his throat. "Fury told me he gave you new duds."

"New," The soldier quirks at him, eyes narrowed, " _what?"_

Logan beams a snicker of a grin, eyes crinkling with amusement. "Uniform."

Carefully Steve edges out his reply. "True enough."

"And it's grey, and it's black, and it's not anything you actually want to wear."

Steve swallows harshly, unsure of the coded answer that he should just instantly say. "It's regulated."

"The man dictates what you're wearin', bub. That kinda personal touch would give me the creeps."

The soldier braces for S.H.I.E.L.D. to bust in the bar's door. "I've been dictated uniforms before. It doesn't matter all that much what it looks like."

"I don't know about that. When I was in the sticks, I used to think about all those men sprinting by with worn out patches on their shoulders. It didn't take me long to figure out who wasn't on my side." As if keeping pace, Logan's shot-glass is filled. Quickly, he tosses it back, rolling it on middle of his tongue, waiting for the numbing burn. "I've survived five wars in the same uniform, kid. My own skin. My own side."

"Five?" Steve asks hoarsely, like someone had come up from behind and hit him as hard as he could across the back. A flood of pain washes through his spine, tugs at his temples, and then melts into the purple wound at his side. He presses his eyes closed, nearly sipping into the delusion that he wasn't the only person on Earth that suffered out of place.

"Yeah." Logan replied cautiously. "World War I made me fear for my life, and World War II…" Logan had to cough to give the words out. "—made me fear for everything else."

Steve forces the question out. He pushes both elbows onto the rough wood of the bar to keep his hands in sight. He had started to form an unconscious fist that pushed the tip of each nail into the skin of his palms. "You were there?"

A solemn nod is what Steve receives in return—no sound of continuing the dialogue follows. Steve narrows his eyes tight, and charges through. He has to take the lead or he'd be here all night, the both of them, just anticipating the next move.

"Then you saw them, then. Those camps."

"You mean to tell me you  _stop_  seeing them, Rogers?" Logan's question emphasizes itself bitterly.

The air feels solid in his lungs. The question is pulling a thin string out of his wound and he's grasping at nothing to keep himself in check. He pulls in another breath as if pretending to consider that he doesn't dream about starved, naked bodies in the snow, or Peggy's breaking tones through the plane's controls, or the sound of Bucky's bones clamoring together as he fell away from a world beyond Steve's reach.

"I never stop seeing those camps." Steve echoes sadly. "I—I never meant it as it sounded."

Logan stares straight ahead into the blinding neon light, clicking his tongue against his teeth before he speaks. Steve can hear the collection of muscle against bone. "You don't have to listen to 'em, you know."

"To whom? Director Fury?"

"Yeah," Logan says slowly. Those coal back eyes dart away again, unable to look directly at Steve. He heaves a loud sigh as he laces his fingers back around his shot glass. "You shouldn't go back there."

Steve lets the whiskey sit in his mouth and burn up his tongue. Burn up his brain. "Back." He pauses for effect. "Where?"

Logan's full gaze takes him by surprise. "Back to Germany."

Steve sluggishly loses focus of keeping the brim of the glass to his lips. "Oh, I know about Germany. Despite what you think, Director Fury tells me that much."

Logan's dark eyes narrow into slits. "You  _knew_  about Germany, kid. You don't know what's there now."

"And what is in Germany?" Steve asks as calmly as he can. The way Logan's dancing around this mission…it makes the feeling in Steve's fingers sink down to below zero. He can feel the blood draining from his face.

"Fury won't tell you the truth about anything, Rogers. He'll play you for a sucker. That's why I get in and I get out. I know you felt scared as all get out when you woke up, but you shouldn't stay—they'll get their claws into you and they dig until they hit gold. And bub, did they hit gold with you."

"Logan," Steve eases the drink down onto the bar. "What is in Germany?"

Dark eyes glint to Steve's blistering blue. "Isn't that classified?"

"You've snitched this far. You gonna stop now?"

Another sigh. "The truth is I don't rightly know what is there for you but… bad memories. The second Fury told me was the second I lost sight of what he wanted. He's always changing his wording about what it is. A thing. A place. Hell, maybe a person. I really don't have a clue. But he wants it, and he wants it bad. And he's using you to get to it."

"The only thing I want is far, far away from here—in another country—and that country ain't Germany. I know. I  _called_  and  _checked."_

"Fury doesn't give a damn about you, Rogers." Logan startles, his voice dry and low. "I've known him long enough to see what he does to people—people like us."

"Us?"

"What we've been through—the camps, the drills, the blood on our hands—your memory is map that he's using to keep this whole mission going. Decades and decades of knowledge. He's not letting that slip through his fingers. Whatever he wants, it's in your past."

The monotone in Steve's voice keeps everything inside from exploding out. "Everything in my past is dead."

Logan's heavy voice lashes back across the distance between them. "And what if it's not?"

* * *

 


	32. Bar Brawl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title says it all

Chapter 33: Bar Brawl

**AN** :  ***Fixed Dates thanks to Endgame65 for seriously knocking me back in line. Sorry about that, guys.**

And after this intenseness— next up is Beth and Steve. C: Because there is always time for Kay to write out more whacky, cuddly, awkward goodness for Beth and Steve.

* * *

The hairs on Steve's neck arch upwards. "How would you know? How would Fury possibly know?" Steve protests loudly—his voice rising from the sheer  _audacity_  to say such a cruel question.

Logan steadies his gaze as his upper lip begins to drawback in annoyance. "It isn't about  _how_ , Rogers. It's about  _who."_

"Then  _who's_ feeding me this lie? How can I trust you over Fury?"

The mutant is quiet, but Steve's breathing is louder than ever. "I'm not saying you should. But I know Fury's tricks. His ultimatums. I'm merely came because Fury usually refuses to work with me—but once I realised who you were, I made an exception because I understand how you feel—in a way. I've lived through two centuries of time—and every day seems more daunting than the last. Heh." Logan's hand rises up to scratch a hard, red line into the side of his nose. A trait Steve can only surmise as Logan's attempt at being self-conscious. "I guess Fury knew how to get to me as well."

Two centuries of time. Decades. Wars. Steve can't begin to wrap his head around Logan's life—he breathed and walked and lived through it all—whilst the soldier lay frozen. Even then, Steve's all at once jealous and relieved. If only for a moment.

But then that moment ends, and Steve realises that he and Logan aren't nearly alike as he could've hoped.

Logan kept experiencing time. Steve stood still. Just like he's stood still for so long out of that ice. Out of suit. He pushes his fingers inside his jacket pocket for some escape from his frozen fingers, and he touches paper. His heart leaps to his throat. It's out of the blue, but he can't help but bring it up.

"You lived through it all," Steve states stiffly.

Logan grunts in some kind of rebellious modesty. "It's what my papers say."

"Then—you'd remember the train crash up in the Alps?"

The brows above Logan's weathered eyes slowly crawl forward, their edges forming in a perceptive, grey tint at their edges—the only true reminder that Logan was not perpetually in his 40s, but the colours someone wears for simply getting this  _far._  Steve could recall a saying that Bucky's father once bestowed on when he and Bucky were far too young to understand it. 'Every grey hair is failed attempt that tried to end you. A silver reminder that your body may turn on you, but your soul is golden.'

"Can't say I'd know all the details, but it certainly rings a bell."

"My team and I were on that train. We were buried in layers of ice with hoarfrost hanging on our chins. We managed to take out a lot of HYDRA men that night, but the cost was…" His voice threatens to crack. His vocal chords physically hurt. He can't tell if it's from the cold, or the beer, or…

The soldier makes a show of clearing his throat. He glances at Logan. "Was unbearable."

Steve reaches into his pocket. "He was my best friend. I wouldn't dare try an' get a pity story out of someone you probably wouldn't know but—I guess I just wanted to bring him back one more time to someone…to someone that was there."

More carefully than Steve thought the brutish fella was capable of, Logan's meaty fingers hold the crumpled paper as if it were made of matches. Anything more than breathing on it would ignite a fire. His eyes turn the letters briefly as the mutant's mouth silently moves to digest the obituary.

"Crash in the Alps," Somehow, Logan's harsh voice seems more wrecked. He glances at Steve for half a second, gives a characteristic sniff, and then drives right back into reading once more.

Steve feels his fingers shake at how long it's taking. It is almost as if waiting for the sniffer-dogs to trail through the bottom of the ravine only to find nothing of his best friend. It's shifting the loose-footing of his weight back and forth over his legs, remembering the wet stitching of his hat leaking through his hair. He felt so inhumanly calm that day, standing outside of Mrs. Barnes door. The only mentioning of his walled off plight in the official KIA letter crumpled inside of his fist. The way Logan takes his time to read a few simple paragraphs has force Steve's spine at attention. The soldier can't help but let his own heartbeat take over the watery silence of the bar.

And suddenly, Logan's eyes go wide; the dark pupil expands out into tiny treads waving their way backwards through millions of split receptors, flashing and floating, inside of Logan's skull. Slowly, Steve watches as Logan's entire personality changes in half a second—giant hands suddenly push all of the empty bottles away. The blunt bones of Logan's shoulders pitch the fabric of his jacket.

Slowly, Logan's tense body leans as close to Steve as he can get, powerful shoulder blades shadowing them both like a determined barricade. Big black eyes pound into Steve's gaze.

When he speaks, Logan's lips seem to hardly move as his voice turns into a raspy whisper. "Fury sent me there first. To Germany. To a targeted position in the Alps. He didn't tell me nuthin' about this friend of yours or a train—just to search for a trail. A  _human_  trail. He told me it was near impossible to train his agents for an Avalanche team. This mission required my  _personal_ skill. It boiled down to me and the snow and a scent that could've meant anything."

Steve reaves back instantly, blood rushing inside the shell of his ears. "The way you spoke about Germany—I can't believe I didn't suppose that sooner. If—"

"You're not  _listening_  to me, Captain," Logan interrupts heatedly. "Fury sent me there ten  _years_ ago. Why would he send you back when  _I_ , no offense bub, didn't find a single inch of whatever mile Fury's trying to take?" That same grizzled smirk lingers around the tempest of assault in Logan's eyes. "Fury only uses me when he's desperate, prob'ly because I'm the best there is at what I do. And what work I do—let's just say it usually involves dead bodies."

Steve's neck cracks from how suddenly he's looked away. He can't help but stare into the pit of the sign, letting the florid hue absorb his vision. It's everything he has inside of him to not picture what Barnes' body must've looked like at the bottom of that snow-blind pit. Nails slowly push into the wood like its butter. "What? Why—what was Fury even thinking—that's…insanity."

"Oh no," Logan's voice rises up at the absurdity of the idea. "That's just gotten worse. Now? Now he's mad with power at all he can—and can't—do. And what he was tryin' to do was use me to prove that some things don't stay buried."

Steve's whole body is a stature of focus, as if every word Logan's saying tightens the claustrophobic prison of his skin. "Y'think he's sending me back—there?"

"Dunno. He could send you anywhere." The mutant lowers his voice to near imperceptible level, but Steve hears him perfectly. "But what I'm gettin' at is that…I didn't tell Fury the whole truth of that mission."

Too much blood is pouring into Steve's face. It's making him feel lightheaded—like Fury's injected medicine all over again. "What do you mean?"

"He sent me to find a scent. The truth was I didn't find one. But I did find this cave. Real, real deep into the mountain. Real unnatural like. So I went in and I found…this door."

"What kind of door?"

"The kind that don't open but from the inside. I got curious. I uh, picked it, and I found myself instantly surrounded by…well. Masks. They smelled male, anyway. The biggest guy—He was covered in metal. That metal looked damned familiar, too. It was so long ago, though." For some odd reason, Logan looks down at his hands as if they could tell him the answer.

"They all were—and they had powerful weapons—alien-lookin' things—the likes I ain't seen yet in 50—60 years? They chanted something really loud at me—foreign—couldn't tell you what—and shot at me. Needless to say I got outta there. I got my own team, my own problems with a better leader than Fury, and I risked my skin for not much to go on."

"So you kept that from Fury?" Steve's tongue feels instantly evaporated. "Ten years," Steve fights back. "Years, Logan."

"Yeah, well, Fury has his secrets, I have mine. But don't get too uptight, kid. I'm sure Fury knew long before I ever did. Besides. I didn't leave without a reminder of my own." Quickly, Logan pulls back his jacket to show off the light long-sleeved shirt underneath. "They shot me with something. Something that left a scar." Logan's dark eyes held Steve's. "My healing factor doesn't let me  _get_  scars."

A single pull, and Logan's thick skin is dimmed under the faulty bar illuminations hanging above, but Steve can see it quite clearly. It's a rather light upheaval of scar tissue—faintly rigid. At a mere glance, you'd never know it was there. "Hurt?"

"Like nuthin' I'd ever felt before. It's been a while now. I couldn't say. I've probably had worse, but I do know that…if it left a scar, they ain't messing around. My own abilities should have made light work of this—but, well. You see the outcome. Anyway. You shouldn't worry too much. There's all types now-a-days, kid. Could'a been a crazy cult, looking for minerals. Who knows. Sometimes I'd get a wild hair and I'd head back there but I could never find that door again. Years n' years. Gone under the snow. That's all I've found of it—and I haven't heard of anything like them since."

Steve slowly shakes his head. He can feel wisps of his light hair pressed to his forehead from sheer sweat alone. "Logan, why are you telling me all of this?"

Logan lays Bucky's picture across the bar, smooths it out. "Because this guy must'a meant a lot to you to carrying around his picture. I figure you'd deserve to know what I saw. But it's been ten years, kid. I don't know what became of any of that nonsense. But you deserve to know what you're going into—and not just what Fury wants you to  _think_  you're going into."

Steve stares at Logan's face for a while, steeled to the seat. Quietly, he swallows the bile in his throat. "You said you were sent to find a scent. As if that person had to be… alive to…to still put off one." His breathing picks up. A taps a nail over the paper. "Were you meant to find his?"

A shake of Logan's head. "I have no idea. Wish'a could've gotten a look at one of their faces." Logan says, staring a little too hard at Bucky's smile. Steve feels his stomach churn—half of his whiskey all but forgotten.

The soldier really has to work to get the words to fall out timely, and not in some blind, babbling rush. "What I mean to say, Logan, is that—did Fury say to find… Barnes? Like—like how they tried to find  _me?"_

"You don't think," Logan raises a single bushy brow. "…your friend could survive that kinda fall, do you?"

Steve lets Logan's cold, gritty voice wash over him with what little logic he could use to compose himself.

"Impossible," Steve practically whispers the finality of the word. He's spent so long having to force himself to understand that his best friend was gone. To live on false hope would be the end of him.

"To the true heroes, then." Logan returns, equally as sad.

Logan palms up another bottle, pops the cork, and raises it halfheartedly for a cheer. Steve grabs his drink and clicks it against the mutant's. The 21st century surely has taken him into some strange situations…and after fighting a mad man with a red skull for a face, that certainly was saying something. Steve downs the whiskey into a near empty stomach, and pretends that it still doesn't hurt to swallow. By the time he's opened his eyes, Logan's bottle is empty and seated on the bar. The dirty man gives another sniff, and this time Steve has to ask what that's all about.

"Head cold?"

Logan's teeth look all the more disturbingly pointy at the canines. "Habit. Haven't been sick in a' dog's age."

They're quiet for a second.

"Me either." Steve finally adds. "Until now."

"Really?" Logan seems genuinely curious. "And how'd that happen, slick?"

Steve can feel his eye twitch all on its own. He glances away to hide his blush. "Let's not talk about it."

This time Logan gives a shrug. "Whatever."

Steve glances back to catch Logan's smirk. "Logan. Thanks for tellin' me all that you have."

"Eh," Logan grunts again, absently. "I got one more piece of advice for you, actually."

Steve's brow furrows.

"You gotta be careful goin' back to places you've already been. They're never the same as when you last looked. Don't go lookin' for what you're missin'." Logan sighs sharply. "I guess that's what I've been sent to say to you. Not Fury's words this time, though. My own."

Steve feels his heart boiling inside. It's burning him up at the very idea of going back to that sight. To stare down into that crag. "Thanks, but…there's nothing there for me. Not what you found, anyway."

"And if you do find it again?"

Steve looks at him abruptly. "If I find them again, I go through the door. No questions asked."

Logan sighs and pushes himself away from the bar. There's an edge of disappointment to Logan's intensity. "—I meant. Never mind. Figured as much."

Steve quickly turns. "Fury's probably not going to send me back there—what good could I do that you couldn't?"

"You weren't technically  _alive_  back then, Rogers. You thawin' out has caused a stir. Disappearing always changes things. You—oh, hell. You obviously don't wanna hear it."

The blonde edges forward. "What?"

Logan grits his teeth. "—that missin' thing. Maybe Fury's on to something and we have no idea. Maybe he knows more about your memories and your friend. He's probably hacked into it all and is just waiting to use it. Sees all that misery you went through and skips right over it. Crumples it all up into a little ball and tosses it away. Worthless."

Steve's blood runs cold.  _Even_   _his secrets have secrets._  "Don't say that."

"Hey—you should know to be 'fraid of questions you ain't gonna like the answer to."

"James Barnes _died_  there," Steve snaps bitterly. "He's  _not_ alive. He's  _not_  missing. _"_

It's so clear on Logan's rapid snarl that he's going to say what would hurt Steve the most to hear, but another breath makes the mutant back off. "All I'm sayin' is that you gotta be careful about these things—you gotta make a choice—and from what Fury's tellin' me, you're slipping. You can't keep chasing after the past. You go forward, or you stop moving. You don't get to go back. No one does. No one's special like that. Not even you, kid."

_If it comes to that…and I don't make it out, will you miss me, kid?_  Bucky seems to whisper from the deep, heavy, snow. Steve's feels like the bar's walls are falling in. Tight fists form at his sides.

"Stop calling me that." Steve manages out over the high sound of the lamps. "Driving me up the wall—I'm not some dumb kid. Not anymore."

"Are you? Can't think for yourself? Can't stand up to authority? You take the order  _real_  well, soldier. Too well." Logan edges closer again—and although Steve easily leans above the older man, Steve can't help but notice the blood in his ears roar.

"I don't know why you're pickin' this fight, Logan," Steve bristles. "Insulting me is one thing. Cannin' Fury is another. I've heard this all before. But don't you  _dare_  bully me into what I don't think is right."

"Bully?" Logan lifts his head doggedly. "That's what I am? I'm trying to get you angry so you can see the God damn wool over your eyes. You wanna be lied to? You wanna be used around like a  _weapon?"_  Logan's teeth clack hard. "Doesn't it tick you off what Fury does? Can't believe you have faith in Fury."

"I can't believe you've lost your faith in everything," Steve says cuttingly.

"I've been around a hell've lot longer than  _you_ , Rogers. You learn yourself some things: Idols fall. Worlds collide. People come back from the dead when they ain't supposed to be alive, and me and you—we go on living when we're supposed to be dead. I just hope you'll know that Fury likes to play with unnatural laws. Makes you question things. Makes you think God doesn't exist when you can see all the pulled strings. Just chaos. Human chaos."

"You dragged me out here," Steve attempts to keep his voice level, but the skin over his knuckles quickens. He can feel the pounding ache behind his eyes and suddenly the dim atmosphere of the dampened bar is a spotlight flooding down upon him. The high, kneeing squeal of the lamps that started nibbling at his inner awareness is full tilt screaming at him to rip it from the ceiling so that damnable noise shuts up for good. "To tell me of the possibility of my best friend bein' alive, and then tell me not to do anything about it? To leave? To deconstruct those same people that brought me outta the ice?"

Logan's toothy-grin seems to shrink. A slight twitch to the left corner of his mouth that Steve reads off like a chart of sour intentions. The mutant's seize of his shoulder turns inwards—it's a single movement that Steve picks up. A slight pained scowl skitters across Logan's face—and Steve glances down just in time to catch something shiny appearing from the man's left hand. Steve's brain hotwires itself to the only possible answer:  _a weapon? A gun? There are innocent people here._

"It all depends on if you're willing to question what you believe—" Logan leans forward—enough to blow chalky smoke into Steve's eyes. "Or is that too dangerous for a hero like Captain America to think twice about what he's fighting for? What happens if you were to say 'no'? Would S.H.I. E. L.D. abandon you in a world that can offer you nothing but tomorrow?" Logan drawls carefully. "That's what you're really afraid of, isn't it? Not your friend, not your old flame, but to wake up  _all over again_  like you did months ago?"

_Wake up_ , that voice rises from the blackness sucking him in. It was gone for so long, Steve almost forgot about it.  _Wake up._

And then it unleashes itself all at once:

_I'm not afraid of anythin—g—_ wake up _—et out of yer head, S—_ wake up _—_   _ure. Sure, she's happ—y—_ Wake up _— y—ou dare be late!—_ wake u— _a—_   _ren't you cold?—_ wake up _—late! It's too—_ Wake _—Why did you call me? Why—_ W _—ouldn't let you forget anyw—w— want to dance?—_

His vision fills with blinding light that Steve has to keep his eyes towards. A neon glow. It nearly blocks out everything but Logan's face. A deep breath to throw back an arm. It's seems like it's all in slow motion, but the high pitch of the lamps won't stop, the voices won't stop and it's like Logan is reading his mind, his fears, and the fallout is leaking through the knots in Steve's brain, the churn of the already brunt-through alcohol inside of him.

_"Shut up!"_

The soldier's vision turns red and purple—a brutal punch is slugged across Logan's jaw—it sends the heavy body a good yard back, cracking over an empty table. The bar patrons glance up in shock—all two of 'em. Steve catches their reflections like a mirror of disbelief.

Logan's skull is busted open across the wood, blood already soaking into the boards—but as Steve steps closer, hands shaking, he sees what Logan's been talking about—and it nearly makes the Avenger sick.

Logan's skin crawls around his bones. There's a nauseating crackling as his nose shifts back into place, bones realigning themselves. The jagging cut along the mutant's cheek is deep—but yet the blood starts to ebb, rolling down into ashy sideburns. Instantly, Steve's leg moves backwards on its own, completely horrified at watching a near broken skull splice itself back together in mere seconds. Glinting silver  _things_  maneuver mindlessly so that Logan's bloodied fingers can grab at his own jaw. He gives a sharp, deliberate crack—and suddenly he can speak. And his teeth can set themselves thinly. And those eyes are giant, and wide, and enraged.

Steve's chest heaves—fist still poised upwards to deliver another blow on pure instinct. In just one move all of his anger is obliterated—shock lines his face. Wide blue eyes can barely comprehend how quickly Logan's face has healed just as it was before—and then the mutant is up—a leap over a chair and Steve's no longer concerned about Logan's arms because three sharp, glistening  _blades_  at least a  _foot_  long are jutting out from his knuckles—aiming for Steve's throat.

Sidestep—another chair is kicked up for defense that Logan cuts through with effortless ease. "So—this is what you do when you can't face—reality, Rogers? Bottle it up—until you just deck someone?" Logan rasps out, teeth still slightly offset, but continually to creepily move into place.

Steve grasps another chair to smash it across Logan's teeth—but the guy doesn't even blink upon impact.

Another slash—it's in pieces—Steve has nothing to protect himself with but his hands—but Logan dodges down and aims for the hilt of Steve's stance—his side. Those bone-daggers barely scratch into the faintest outer ring of Steve's wound—but it's enough to bring the soldier to his knees. Logan has him pinned down. Steve can only think of those claws tearing him to chunks, but Logan keeps to eye level, breathing thick, terrible pant into his face.

Steve rattles his lungs for air, but nothing seems to reach the white static covering his brain. He  _punched_  Logan. He can't even remember why he'd gotten so out of control. He just did it straight out—sent the guy reeling, broke open a good portion of his skull—a single blow. And he can't take it back.

Twisting, Steve studies the bloodied bruise on his right hand from incredible impact of Logan's skull—fingers in a spasm on the rough floor like he'd been hit with Thor's hammer all over again.

Logan leans forward without hesitation, his mouth spitting with near froth from how badly he wants to rip the soldier's throat out. As if to avoid this, lithely, Logan's back on his feet—stomping back towards the bar to snatch up the paper. He gives it one final look before rushing Steve again.

Moving isn't an option—Steve can already feel the intense black dots running the edges of his vision. He simply braces for impact.

But it never comes.

From the floor, the soldier studies Logan as the mutant stands over him, his face a blurred, bloodied mess. "I was wrong, kid."

Steve is shocked into a reply. "About  _what?"_

A raise of his chin. "Firstly? That you didn't have a mean right hook. Stuff they only teach you back in a boxing ring." He corrects his jaw once more. "You do. But more importantly: that buddy of yours really must'sa meant an awful lot to you for you to roll me like some drunk. But I'm telling you, Rogers—I'm right 'an you  _know_ I'm right. Your friend is  _alive,_ and Fury ain't gonna tell you jack about it unless you challenge him. And here I didn't think you'd have it in you to dare rumble with me, let alone Fury. I was wrong."

Logan brushes off his shoulders and flicks the paper at Steve. Despite the pain, Steve catches it firmly out of the air—but it feels like a weight anchoring him to the floor. "Like I said: Fury's footing the bill. Table and chairs, too."

"Logan—" Steve's head spins at what he's done. He glances around for the other costumers to find they've already fled—probably in terror of another attack. Carefully, a hand hard pressed to his side, boots barely leveling himself off the bar's floor, Steve stands.

"I." Steve flexes the battered fingers of his hand, now purple at the knuckles. He tries again. "That's never happened before."

"What?" Logan huffs. "You? A soldier that doesn't get so angry that you don't think about what you wouldn't give for another body to beat against?"

Steve stares down at his hand before gazing at Logan.  _Oh no, but I have. Mirrors. Doors. Windows. Stark's face. I've thought about it so many times it's gotten be some kind've…condition._

Logan's takes Steve's silence and runs with it. "Surprised you went this long without snapping at some poor chump that caught you on a bad day. Or can Captain America not have bad days?" Logan mutters sternly. "Bad for S.H.I.E.L.D. relations?"

It hurts to squeeze his hands just so he can keep them limp at his sides, lingering through the blood-stain motions of that one single punch.  _I could…so easily…kill someone just like that. No second thought._

The silence between them feels smothering. Logan turns on a heel. "Ehh. Didn't think so."

Steve's eyes narrow at the abuse Logan can't help but dish. It suddenly all makes sense now. The hopelessly hinted irritation in Logan's every movement. The carried over ire in Logan's black eyes, year after year. … _If I end up like you by the time I'm your age. Are you what I turn into? A resentful bully out for number one?_

"Logan." The coldness in Steve's voice jars the mutant at the door. "—for all that you've told me. Thank you." Steve forces a breath. He finally forces himself to say it because he can't help but suddenly feel like Logan never gets to hear anything compassionate very often, deserving or not. He did tell him a ton about Germany, after all. "I'm real sorry for jumping you."

"You clock a guy and then apologise," Logan deadpans bluntly. "Heh." His face is completely healed as if nothing had happened at all. That daring, black cunning to his gaze. He's even smirking. "You're too nice of a guy, Rogers." He ducks his head slightly. "Unheard of now a-days. I can see why Fury'd be nervous to lose you."

"And I can see why Director Fury hates you." Steve observes.

"Do yerself a favour, kid." Logan nods simply at the soldier. "Don't let Fury take that away from you. And don't let that anger scare you, either. If you do, you'll— you start to mistrust everything you see, like I wouldn't know a good thing until it punched me in the mouth." A slight pause. " And then it did. Ya' alright, kid." Logan raises his fingers to his brow in mock respect. "The only decent agent to come outta S.H.I.E.L.D. in 80 years. Can't stick around long once me and you go at it. Go tell that pretty doll-face I send my regards, will ya?"

Steve leans against the table, still humming with adrenaline. "Don't ever come near her again."

Logan seems to grin without spite for once in his life. "Aye-aye, Captain."

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Man, for the "boring, straight man" of the Avengers, Steve sure finds a heck of a lot of trouble.….Annnd everyone put the palm of their hands to their lips and wiggle it at the screen to kiss Wolvie goodbye! He's gone from this story as well. (Although I do greatly enjoy the prompt that Kar mentioned of Spidey taking a photo of that V-Day kiss for Steve and Beth. Hmmmm~)
> 
> Expect lots of Steve and Beth next~~~


	33. Content

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which you get ALL the Steve/Beth feels, and some Clint/Natasha for a little something special on the side.
> 
> Certainly one of my own personal favourite chapters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Hey guys. Here is your Beth/Steve chapter. There's some Clint/Natasha for you SecretSpyShippers, too.
> 
> Also, thank you so very, very, very much for your reviews. Particularly with just how long they are, and the critiques. It sincerely helps me to grow as a writer, knowing equally what I accomplish well and what I need to work on. I completely get that I was using the Peggy thing far too much. I appreciate you guys letting know. Expect that to lessen considerably.
> 
> Anhow, on another personal note, guys, I'll be real with you. Yesterday was a really hard day. Today was equally as tough. 
> 
> This was written as a sad, compassionate and dis-stressing piece as that day I had found out an idol of mine had committed suicide.
> 
> At the bottom of this chapter is one of my favourite unpublished poems by a person named Caroline Slavin. It is a homage poem to a John Green quote. A John Green quote that I never quite understood nor felt much towards.
> 
> And then I understood it all too well.
> 
> I hope you enjoy.
> 
> "I fell in love with the way …"

 

* * *

"So, what do you think, Natalia?" Clint keeps his chin knowingly close to her ear so that his words are wisps of heat on the frozen air. His voice is perfect to whisper without the worry of any passerby's overhearing. His body is positioned in front of her; the innocent guise of a couple cuddling for warmth from the cold. The high outer walls of the restaurant are powered in ice. Tiny crystals hang tightly from the deep, embroidery in the bricks. Natasha leans against them—pinned to the naked eye, with her shoulders pressed to the wall. The hard callouses along the inside of Clint's fingers sprawl warmly against the driven snow. The archer's strongest hand supports him up and away from her, but the other, thought to be looped around Agent Romanova's waist, hovers inches from her actual body—a façade of intimacy that reminds Hawkeye that this is practiced and limited.

"I think you're getting too close," Natasha informs Barton darkly.

She moves her leg just enough so that Hawkeye is acutely aware that she's aligned her boot to travel the inside stitching of his jeans. And with the way he's spread into the "dominate" stance, he's risking the chance that Natasha will happily tamper with any movement she doesn't prefer. As always, Natasha's never one to relinquish control, but years of this keeps Clint from complaining as he first had. This tango between their bodies feels more lethal than the tip of an arrow, more intimate than any sex Clint can ever recall.

He pretends to lean further into the heat drifting from her neck. From a distance, it is as if he's kissing her.

"You told me to follow you. You assumed the position and I followed suit. We've only preformed this one hundred times before."

"It's been seventy-eight times," Natasha replies expressionlessly. Her eyes glint with a strained awareness—a half a second look at another couple, hand in hand, walking a little too close to them and, suddenly, she laughs for show—and to hear Natasha laugh is to never hear a sound. It's silent. Everything about her is a fluid motion that's far too quick to see coming unless monitored by vigilant awareness. If ever asked, Clint would compare her to the way light travels faster than sound.

"And here we are again," Clint locks with her eyes. "Why are we like this?"

"I've monitored both the men and women restrooms for most of the last hour. Too many people in and out the doors. There's nowhere to speak privately."

"I wasn't aware we were hiding in plain sight from something."

Natasha's light lipstick tints into a scowl. "You don't realise the severity of the situation that Steve has created, do you? How it is going to affect us?"

"What do you mean?" Barton's voice is a quiet hush. "Before Fury even made us aware of the Avengers Initiative we took the promised missions before us with the idea of complete infiltration and analysis of potential blimps on a radar. We were sent, specifically, to handle both Stark and Thor. Banner was requested only for the Tesseract retrieval.  _They've_  affected us. But Rogers?"

The shake of Natasha's head gently pushes her auburn hair along Clint's cheekbone. "If that's how you feel, then why didn't you support me against Stark?"

"Look, I get that this is a huge deal to nearly all involved, but I don't regret keeping to my own opinions. I wanted to meet this girl because I wanted to know what would make "The Man Out of Time" walk through snow-fall,  _bleeding_ , to get to her. I'm just a spectator, interested in what happens next—but you really want to know my opinion? Since its come  _this_  far I think we're being needlessly subtle about things that should just be said."

He brings up a hand to push a bit of fringe back behind her ear, only to get the full glare of her emerald eyes. Natasha narrows her thin eyebrows until there is a distinct pitch to upper bridge of her nose. "Of course," she says offhandedly. "You were never one for being subtle."

"Natasha," his voice drops into a low, whispering plea—with an familiar edge so much like when she had freed his mind from Loki's deadly control, and he wanted her to tell him why she took the risk to save him. "I can see through just about anyone, but I can't read minds. I'll ask again: what are you thinking?"

"Barton." Natasha's unflappable voice drops steadily colder. "Do you know what Fury wants with Rogers?"

It's only years of holding a bow out from his body, perfectly straight, that keeps Barton's arms from aching without the support—frozen and inches away from her back. "What he wants with everyone else. Solutions to the problems that get in his way."

She presses herself into his chest just as another team of shoppers flood out of the restaurant's doors with  _Penny's_  bags and scarfs blustering in the wind. Clint can feel the shallow intake of her breathing—the exhale of her breath on his neck. "And what if I wanted to use someone of my own to get in Fury's way?"

Clint's blue eyes seem to wash over her in disbelief. His eyes close tightly—she can count the front row of his teeth as his entire mouth draws back in grimace.  _No._  He thinks, his thoughts kicking up in a swarm of memories.  _No, no, no._

Quickly Clint's hand clasps onto the lean muscles of Natasha's arm. "Natasha, what are you  _doing?_ " He hisses into her ear. "Going behind Fury's back—"

"Fury's using Steve's entire existence on a single… hypothesis. This theory that…that wasn't meant to exist in the first place."

"Oh, 'not meant to exist in the first place,' is it? I see. So it's simple, then?" Barton's voice is thick with sarcasm. "Like Norse Gods falling to Earth?"

"Clint, this plan that Fury has? It's right here on Earth. That's why it's so close to—to _us._ That idea is going to destroy not just Rogers, but  _international borders_  of security. Borders that, if made undone, would set up another Cold War—and by that time we won't have Rogers to help us, or S.H.I.E.L.D. to guide us. Fury could destroy everything that S.H.I.E.L.D. has been protecting since the 20's."

"I take it Fury doesn't see it that way?"

"Like the way he only saw the Tesseract." She swallows thinly. "And he's made sure I understood it as well."

"Natasha," Barton begins heavily, but the rest of the words follow.

She raises her knee to touch at the soft, inner part of his thigh. She tilts her head ever so lightly so that Clint can feelher lips trace the shell of his ear. "You made a call, once, to disobey orders."

He breathes in deeply and untangles himself from the warmth of her body and nudge of her breasts against his jacket. He gathers his will to look into those dark, alluring eyes so he can force himself to repeat what she already knows all too well. "I made that call to spare your life because you're too good at what you do to not work for S.H.I.E.L.D."

"Then you should understand, of all agents, that I won't be caught. My skills are completely intertwined with manipulation. What better challenge than to string up the puppet master?"

"You respect Fury, Natasha." Barton snaps. "I know you do."

"I have respect for the president of my home country just the same as I have respect for power of nuclear bombs. I have respect for keeping my promise to S.H.I.E.L.D. service my abilities to a better cause. Barton, we've worked with Fury so long, can't you sense there's a change coming? Fury thinks it's the best. Of course he does. However, we know he works in ultimates. Someone has to make the call and I'm willing to change his mind the only way I know."

"Sabotage. Over Rogers? Natasha—why you?" Barton has to struggle to not start yelling at her. At the years of immaculate service she's trying to undo. "You're a spy. When did you get so loyal to anyone?"

He can feel her spine go rigid. Her arms slide away to hang at her sides. Her face is pale with her red hair vividly angry against the white bricks. "You and I, Barton—we're not good people. We don't work with good people. We don't meet good people."

"Natalia—" Clint whispers grittily against her. "—"

"Stop." Natasha commands—her hand rises up to cover his mouth like an interrogation. "Steve Rogers is a good man." She pauses, her eyes vicious to Clint's blue, as if waiting for him to disagree. He doesn't.

"Fury's game of chess revolves around Rogers, which is why we have to move Steve ourselves—and we can move him through  _her._  I know what Fury's going to do to him." Her mouth tightens into a ruby-lipped confession. "We  _have_  to use her. She is an outliner that Fury isn't expecting. The only thing Rogers has managed on his own thus far is being too stubborn talk to S.H.I.E.L.D. about his PTSD. Do you know why he wants Rogers to talk to those doctors at base? To make sure Rogers is of the mindset that Fury's wants."

"Why Fury would sacrifice years of searching for  _the_  Captain America is beyond me. What could be  _possibly_  better than a Super Soldier?"

She's silent for a heartbeat with her hand still clasped over his mouth. "I hope we don't find out."

Clint sighs, unsure, following along. "And you're certain we have to use this girl?"

"For as long as we can, yes. I don't know for how long, which is why I'm speaking to you now for your own analysis on her in person. Do you, or do you not, see her value?"

_Value._  Clint holds the word on his tongue.  _A person's entire worth measured in percents that only decrease over time._   _To turn her into us, Natasha?_ It strikes a fit of regret inside of him. _  
_  
"You can't—" Clint strains breathily, hot breath leaking through the cracks between her fingers "—you can't use that poor woman this way. Don't you think by the time she's dealt with all that Rogers is she'll have had enough? You said yourself. She was catatonic at the sight of a wounded man. She and Rogers are ticking time bombs that only have the possibility of defusing one another. Do you know what will happen if Fury finds out what your whole motivation is? What if Fury gets a hold of her? Do you know what he will _do_  to her?"

"What he did to you for failing to kill me?" She drops the question like a stone into a still pond.

Barton quiets—his heart drumming into his throat. "To compromise Captain America without Fury's command. 70 years of searching for the perfect soldier." A pause where his stares into the misty green of Natasha's eyes. "Worse." His voice gets even softer. "Far worse."

"If you're willing, Barton. If you can put confidence in me over our years of partnership… if you give me time, I'll let you in on what's going on." Her voice is as brutal as hot steel forming together in the winter air. "But—you know what will happen if it fails. But this is bigger than us, Clint. I've  _seen_  it."

She has. He understands that forsaken look in her eyes immediately. It clicks in Clint's brain like a final piece of a puzzle put to rest. "All this time—I should've  _realised_  it wasn't simply about Rogers' well-being. That this wasn't some ego match between you and Tony."

"Stark won't listen to reason anymore," Natasha explains firmly. "Or else he'd be an asset and not a frustrating problem. I'm going to keep attempting his skills, but I am unsure on how to keep him suppressing his own tendencies without Fury's Intel's noticing that direct of a change. They're deliberately motoring Stark as much as Stark's watching them. They have been since his return to Earth; he's broadcasted himself as an obsessed shut in, and I do fear for his psyche if he finds out any more than he already has." Her tone lowers softly, sounding almost guilty. "And I'm not sure how much Fury is simply using that side of Tony to keep him away from this whole mission in the first place."

She takes a breath for re-calibration. "Besides, at least it's known that the less people, the less botched this becomes." She leans into him once more, her lips red-defined and close to the hollow of his throat as she speaks. "Do you trust me?"

Clint feels his bones vibrating as he considers the woman before him that's forever changing the game they play. He loves that about her. He loves that about her and can't stand it all at once. He loves how he can't keep up on her changing history, her hair color, her personality, her name.

He licks his lips carefully. "'Trust' isn't the word that comes to mind. But I'm listening."

"Then you know the risk we're taking."

He pretends to push a bit of her hair behind her ear—the tips of his fingers barely there across the silk of her hair. An older woman passing by pauses to watch them from across the street before sighing sweetly at the pair. Natasha keeps her eyes focused on rushing traffic.

"Yeah—we get exiled—possibly hunted down as loose ends that have to be cut in, say, four or five years' time—or a much crueler fate: cast off into a cubical job."

A flicker of a rare smile on her lips, and it's only when he's mentioning their deaths.

He sighs in acceptance. "Beth Ore is going to stop Fury. The man who thought tampering with alien power was Earth's only unfaultable defense. I'll give it to the guy: he has ambition, but I can't even begin to explain how interested I am in what his next plan is for the betterment of the world." A shake of his head. "How long have you've been planning such a scheme? When did you know? How did I miss it?"

Natasha stretches her shoulders taunt as she lowers her leg back onto the snow covered street. "Become the actor you think you could be and play along. The next step is up to them, sadly. But I could not move forward without some kind of partner. I need you to know that before we go back inside. We'll just have to wait."

* * *

Steve keeps his hand gingerly tucked into the pocket of his jacket more so for the comfort of others than any type of actual relief. It's a nasty sight. Swollen at the joints, purple along the dives of his fingers, and black along the jut of his bones. He can't believe that Logan's head could be that impossibly  _hard_ ; the soldier felt like he was punching straight through his own shield.

The pain is ragged up his body—bruised from his scuffle. He swallows hard at the idea of his wound being reopened, but so far he hasn't noticed any blood leering at him from the cloth at his side. He isn't entirely sure if that's a good sign. Everything has this aching, chilling, stiff flow to his nerves.

For the longest time, everything feels at a distance, and Steve is grateful for it.

He folds Bucky's paper so that it'll fit neatly into his jean pocket. It's too much information at once, and he has to shove Bucky away. Every throb in his knuckles keeps him grounded.

Calm _._ He has to stay calm. He recalls the peace of walking into crowds to disappear and moves forward without hesitation.

Some blocks later, a sound chimes. It's his phone. Very needy and suddenly active amongst the still snow drifting through the air. The words dancing across the screen can't help but make him smile despite the pain: Beth.

He carefully begins to read every letter of the text that he's received and…  _He can't think about Bucky now. He's going to be consumed and it'll be a disaster. He doesn't even know where to start. Who does he tell? Where can he go? It's just too much—Stop._

It's too cold and he's too exhausted to try and work it out again…

But it's hard. It's so hard to not think about that. It's like inhaling. There's a pressure in his lungs that erupts from deep inside of him, desperate for air— have to breathe it in. He has to exhale. And as many breaths as Steve's taken to this day…it was so hard to not think about Bucky breathing as well.

He takes a deep breath, holds in the chill, and breathes out. Beth's words make his heart speed up, but he feels like he's re-reading it too many times until it doesn't make sense. A letter is off. A mistake?

_…with something that looks like the letter 'C'?_  The soldier thinks in confusion.

_Natasha and the rest of the girls have to leave, but I would love to see you again today, if you're up for it?C:_   _5:44 pm._

_I'll be there soon. Tell Natasha I said thanks. 5:49pm._  It takes him a bit longer to get out the words with just one hand.

_She says that she wants to borrow your motorcycle…she won't say why…but…I may have mentioned you have a fever. I may be regretting that._   _5:51pm_

He weighs his cellphone on the palm of his hand in deliberation.  _You may have gotten me into even more trouble, Miss Ore._   _5:58pm_

A sudden, loud chime snaps the soldier to look back again; he nearly jumps at how quickly his phone leaps to life.

_Lol! I don't regret it then, Soldier Steve. 5:59pm._

Steve pockets his phone with a slight smirk as he turns back for his bike, wondering if, by the end of the night, he'll be able to figure out for what 'L-O-L' even stands for.

* * *

There is a heavy, pulsing rush of electronic sounding music pouring from car windows. It's mixed with the sound of people chatting loudly as they brush by the soldier, but he has trouble keeping focus on even the most minimal of tasks. Once Beth's presence dissipates, Steve actively searches his memory for reason. He keeps replaying his fight with Logan again and again—with only the slightest limp to his step whenever he has to turn sharply to avoid yet another person staring down into their mobile phone instead of looking where they are going. He isn't sure if he'll ever get used to that. He can't fight the sinking feeling that looking out for other people just isn't as valued as it used to be.

* * *

The text told him that he'd find the gals outside of the eatery, but the traffic this time of the evening has slowed his arrival time to a crawl. The shimmering creep of the day's last rays of sun run for shelter a midst the tall, roaming branches of the Christmas-wired trees. The streets start to empty of bustling people. Even Steve can feel the temperature start to drop.

His bike whines through the motor as he rushes through the blustery air. The wind rattles the old, metal bones of his bike—for a moment Steve wonders if it's gonna stall out, but the coughing roar from the motor keeps its pace.

At the door to the restaurant the soldier finds that the sudden blast of hot air across his body nearly knocks him down. He sits briefly at the large waiting area to try and quell how bad he's shivering. A few waiters turn their heads to glance his way, and Steve narrowly avoids making eye contact. He carefully folds his hands into fists to keep some composure. The last time he felt this cold, and shivered this bad, he was lying on Banner's lab table.

He pulls his injured hand out of his jacket to find that it's almost completely healed. The bones set back into place, the skin a bright red tone from the December chill outside. He flexes it again for reassurance without a single bip of pain. He smiles at his hand in surprise. There's a new feeling of liberation with the evidence that his body is back to healing as it should.

The waiter working the ritzy place's reservation quickly looks away from the strange man that's smiling at his own hand. Instead, he deftly sends an easily pushed around busser to tell that crazy gentlemen that the table he's requested to visit is finally able to hold a new chair.

Far away from the wait staff.

* * *

Natasha's the first at the table to smile at Steve, which sends a nervous flutter down his throat. Natasha hardly ever smiles a full smile.  _She's planning something_ , Steve contemplates. Edging closer, the soldier takes in how Beth is just off the left side, and seated across from none other than Clint. Steve raises his eyebrows at the archer before dismissing that he probably didn't come here for a serious mission. He hopes _. If there has to be one more person that's here to meet her, I'd rather it be him anyhow._  
  
"Steve—glad you made it." She raises tastefully, her dark, black skirt collecting around her knees as she moves along the side of the table to greet him. "You just missed Jane and Darcy."

Steve feels himself inwardly sighing with relief over missing Miss Lewis. After that scrap with Logan, he'd have to further consider if he could grind up enough mental awareness to keep up with that young lady. He's drained just thinking about how quickly she talks.

"What a shame," Steve returns lightly. "I'll catch her next time, I'm certain." He glances around to catch Beth's eyes, and the second he does he feels his heart jitter happily. He keeps his eyes directly to the blonde's when he asks: "I certainly hope it was a good time?"

Instantly Beth wishes she didn't feel so self-conscious. That she couldn't just stand up and hug Steve. Mainly because he looks shamefully cold—and that's kind've adorable, but also because she really _,_   _really_ wants to. She glances at the ink stain on her hand and flips a cloth napkin over it.

"Informative," Beth looks up at him with a smile that makes Steve feel like a million bucks. "Darcy is a trip—and Jane is—well, she's so intelligent. And the way she talks. She makes me miss college."

Steve matches her grin, unable to stop for some senseless reason. He has to forcefully make himself look at Natasha. He's almost doesn't want to know. "And Natasha? You have a good time?"

A red raise of her shapely brow is the most direct answer Steve can expect. "Beth and I—we've met before, I think."

"Y—" Steve blanches back like he's been slapped. "You sure have."

In an effort to slip by Natasha, Steve carefully sits into the plush chair beside Beth—carefully lancing an arm along the back to help keep the weight off the stitches in his side.

"So Steve, what have you been doing this whole time? You missed some great stories." Steve's never been so grateful for Barton's keen ability to shift focus away from Natasha's cutting style.

"I just went shopping," Steve explains casually. He flexes his fist inside of his jacket. Still no pain, but he  _knows_  Logan should have quite the headache.

Clint frowns slightly at him. "On a motorcycle?"

"Window shopping." Steve elaborates.

"Ah, my favourite pastime." Clint agrees heartily. "And by, 'my favourite' I really hope you'd just kill me if I ever decided to do such a thing. There's nothing more frustrating than looking at something that you desperately want but you can't have."

Beth's eyes flicker uncomfortably between Natasha and Clint at pinball speed. As soon the agents engage in yet another round of banter between them (as that had been happening occasionally within the past few hours) Beth inches carefully over so that her shoulder is resting against Steve's.

"Is there a thing between them that I'm missing?" She whispers shallowly. Steve turns to look at her, his eyes mildly cloudy. He seems distracted. She pouts ever so slightly at the sweat, tepid, on his brow. "Steve? You feeling okay?"

He blinks—and suddenly his lips rise up contently, as if he just realised she was talking to him. "I'm sorry—ha—" He lingers closer to her, and she can smell the musk of his sweat on his neck, and it smells  _wonderful_ —and then she can smell alcohol on his breath.  _A lot. Whoa—_ it nearly gags her. There's a brazen of smoke that reminds her of her father's cigars.  _What?_  She thinks in astonishment.

"We're  _all_ missing things when it comes to those two," Steve continues. "I wouldn't try an' figure it out. It'll just burn you out. There's no heads or tails to make of them."

"Ah," Beth nods in understanding, trying to keep the situation bright. "I see. Kind've like  _Friends_? 'Will they? Won't they? Find out next week!'"

Steve chuckles lowly at her. "Friends? Isn't that opposite of a—of'va—intimate relationship?"

"The TV show? Ross? Rachel?" She raises her voice softly and actually starts to sing: " _I'll be there for youuuu."_  She looks at him for any sign of recognition, but Steve just looks at her as if he's discovered a little concert all for himself. "You've—" her smile dampens. "…you've never watched  _Friends._ "

"No," Steve says comfortably, far too amused by her sudden keenness to sing. He wonders if he can trick her into doing that again. "But that was charming."

Beth smiles wearily at Steve, her heart racing, but a strange quake to her stomach.  _Is he drunk? Is that why Natsasha's taking his bike?_  
  
"Um, here," Beth offers quietly. "Have my water."

She scooches the glass over towards Steve's hand and notices that the skin there is an alarming shade of red. She opens her mouth to ask, but he quickly grabs the glass like man fit for sunstroke.

"You sure?" He raises his eyebrows at her in delayed surprise." Gosh—thanks."

He takes a sip, expectant of ice, but receives the lukewarm temperature that it's been sitting at for the last half hour. It actually feels good to his throat. Once he's finished it, he rolls the glass around in his hand to see that it has a petite lipstick mark over the brim where Beth's mouth has been. He smiles at the tiny treasure. Slowly, he sets it down, very, very aware of how much he suddenly…suddenly wants to kiss her.

But there's still Clint and Natasha, who have both have settled into a conversation with Beth about that television show she mentioned, and Steve can't swallow enough to ease the friction in his throat. He continues to shove Bucky out of his mind, and studies the way her face moves over each expression. She's so animated. It's like a Minnie Mouse cartoon set to dialogue.

* * *

It seems like only minutes have passed, where Steve finds himself chatting away with Beth about James Bond once again, just before he realises that there are no longer two other bodies sitting across from them.

"Wait—" Steve cranes his neck sharply to take in the emptiness of the dining area all at once. They're alone. Entirely. "What happened to—?" A hand flies to the pocket of his jeans only to find the familiar, rough edge of his motorcycle keys uncharacteristically cloth-like. Steve can't help but chuckle in vain at how she just duped him like that. He pulls his hand away, lint between his fingers. "She took my keys."

Beth flukes her expression into that of someone just shown a magic trick. "Wow." Another considerable change of emotion. She almost looks overjoyed. "When she wants something, she wants something."

Steve nods at her, unable to find the words.

"So!" Beth exclaims cheerfully. "We take the metal box back to my place, then?" Her voice drops playfully from being so close. "I'm sorry, but that honestly sounds  _so_  much warmer than riding through traffic at night." She pauses suddenly. "Um, if you'd like to go back to my place, anyway."

She swallows the remainder of the water they've been sharing to cover her awkwardness. It's funny how she didn't even consider that she could be getting his cold from this, but she can't help but get a kick out of the simple act of  _sharing a drink_  with her—boyfriend. She's also suddenly aware that the more she takes a sip, Steve seems to respond by drinking as well. And…what was that saying? Water and beer…something…clear? Good? Fine..?

Honestly, she's still trying to consider how the idea of how drunken Soldier Steve even…works.

To Beth's surprise, Steve's answer jettisons her out of her thoughts.

"Ya know? That sounds just fine to me."

* * *

The low thrum of the subway train rickets and jumps from under them. The cabin of the train looms dimly—the air is dry and warm despite the damp-snow soaked floor beneath their shoes. Even with the occasional bump, Steve thinks the rails are so much smoother than the big, slums beaten trolleys of his youth. There's a childish side of him that keeps peeking out the windows, holding his breath between every brilliantly announced exit. It's like clockwork. A pure kind of machine. There's a disorientating  _whoosh_ through his ear canals when the beast decides to turn into a hard left. Beth is slowly pushed against him in the force, her blue eyes lighting up golden at their edges when the white-neon lights pulse through the square windows beneath the tunnel.

Another rattle and even Beth gives a laugh at how they're being forcibly squished together. She finally gives in, leans, and lays her head against his shoulder—Steve tries not to draw away in surprise. The wheat-colour of her hair is splayed out across the army green of his jacket, like it's growing in a freshly rained field. He resists trying to smell her, to rest against the top of her head.

"Comfortable?" He breathes, close to her newly exposed ear.

Her nose wrinkles in response. "I hate underground places, but this isn't so bad."

"Oh no?" Steve asks.

"It reminds me of all those terrible twisters that my family and I had to weather out. My great-grandfather hand dug his own cellar—but I always wondered if he was buried down there as well. It always smelled…well," her voice lowers, "sort've like a subway train compacted with people in the middle of winter."

Steve chuckles at the idea, using his arm as levy to loop around her shoulders and gently rub across her skin. Careful not to stare too noticeably at the rash to his hand, she happily hugs him back, and pushes her hair under his chin.

A innocent sniff and suddenly Steve gets the full force of her perfume—the subway train might be sprawled out with the troubled, the k-balling train jumpers, the homeless—but she  _still_  smells like that foggy night curled beneath a sheet with her, like springtime on a clear mountain. It brings him back to trampling muted violet petals under his boots as he ran, screaming to keep the rest of the  _Howling Commandos_  in line. He'd have'ta holler at Percival clownin' around near some S-mines and stop short of the cliffs, spreading the crunch of purple into the dirt with grease running down his back.

"Well, if it does any good, you always smell really sweet," Steve murmurs nervously into the golden crown of her hair.

The compliment seems to go sour. She reaches up and grasps a handful of her hair and the movement tickles him.

"It isn't too strong, is it?" She looks up at him from under her lashes, her erratic smile soft and dim in the passing shadows. For a moment, Steve feels like time doesn't exist at the end of her question. He almost forgets that she's asked him anything. "Steve?" Her voice is genuinely conflicted.

"No—no, I meant—I meant you always smell nice. You smell like—like—" He stammers as he's put on the spot. The fear in her eyes is so palpable that it shakes him. He knew he was terrible at giving compliments, but he didn't think that one was too shabby. "You aren't really worried about somethin' like your shampoo, are you?"

She blushes, but it looks dark blue curled against his shoulder. She takes a breath. Her eyes close. This doesn't help Steve's confusion.

"Beth?" He leans further, the drift from his own hair falling across her cheeks.

Rapidly, her eyes flicker open again and she's  _kissing_  him.

Their lips meet softly; they're firm, and still and finally warm against his. Steve blanks as he takes in her blue eyes so close to him, absorbed, like he's never seen anything quite so intriguing before. He can feel her flush so close to his mouth and it only makes him reflexively move to keep them touching. Quickly, he closes his eyes, awake enough to know that  _you can't just stare_  at the gal you're sweet on, no matter how much you want to peek—because her face, when she's  _this_  close to him, is so absolutely endearing. He can  _feel_ her serenity glowing from her decision—her lips widen briefly when seconds are passing and Steve hasn't moved, possibly in sheer shock. Nervously, she involuntarily smiles from the giddy pulse in her chest and the unexpectedness of looking into someone's eyes while kissing them. She gently moves her lips against the thin stubble on his cheek, slightly rough to her skin, but she finds that likes kissing there all the more. He breaks off, grinning himself.

"You have  _no idea_  how long I've been waiting to do that," She whispers, her voice low and alluring, but very excited to his ears. "Like. All day, I kept thinking, 'would he mind if I just kissed him properly? I asked him out, after all—is he too shy?—'"

She's saying words, but Steve struggles to practically follow her voice—he wants her to do that again. His move.

He carefully grasps her chin to lead her close again—and he can see the apples of her cheeks turn rosy. He delicately presses a kiss to inside of her ear; his only way of telling her how happy he is to hear she's still okay with him. Everything he's put her through—and she still  _wants_  him. He pauses to silently gander her scent again. Violets. Definitely violets. His short breathing tickles the shell of her ear, and she tries bringing him back to exactly where she wants him.

Lifting up her hands, she places them on either side of his face, pulling him down further. He lets out small gasp as she nibbles at his bottom lip. Her breathing slows, but Steve's picks up, his heart pounding against the green bruises beneath his sweater. He doesn't know what to do with his hands so he contents himself to hold her tighter, brilliantly wholehearted against him, and he just breathes—letting her kiss him as much as she wants—and boy, does she apparently want too—they're a tangled in the damp heat from their breathing—their teeth click at some point—and Steve mumbles a muted apology that she holds in a kiss—their lips tumble—more so Steve stumbling through the act—Beth finally lets him catch up, but not before she pulls back ever so slightly—her face flushing, her lips wind-chapped and bright red.

The look on his own face must be priceless, as she's biting her bottom lip in that way that really shouldn't be allowed for dames to do—but Steve can't help himself. He leans one last time, lingering on her lips, drawling away slowly until he's sure she won't try that again for a while—they're in a  _public_ place for Pete's sake!

Breathing smoothly, Beth pulls herself back up, the split leather spongy against her back. Steve rubs at his mouth, trying to screw his jaw back into place. She grins at him cheekily, and Steve finds himself beaming back at her, but his shoulders rise up—he's breathing hard, unable to hide it for long. A smirk appears at the side of her mouth.

"Well aren't—aren't you—pleased," Steve manages, his heart still wild in his rib-cage.

"I am," Beth approves, trying not to be too satisfyingly smug. She hides herself against his shoulder. "You look  _really_  surprised."

"I am," Steve begins. "I—I wasn't prepared for that."

"If you had a tie on, it would have been a whole different story," Beth teases. Steve tries not to blush at the thought. "I—uh," She swallows, her lips red on her shadow caressed face. "You may not believe me, but that was a form of therapy."

Steve steels; his smiling fading a smidge. The last time therapy was mentioned it was through S.H.I.E.L.D. itself. His throat feels pinhole tight. "Is that so?"

"It's like a 'thought-interruption' process—I started to fixate on my anxiety over my hair—and being underground again—since—since—Arh. Of all _stupid_  things… and I just had to stop that kind of ridiculous thought. And so I just did the only thing that I knew would make me feel better. Would make everything…stop." Steve watches her eyes flicker shyly to his and back again into the shadows. She takes a breath, and then relaxes against him, breathing out in relief. He's breathing out in relief as well. "And that was…well, obviously, wanting to kiss you. So I did. But I guess I got a little carried away—I didn't mean to, um, full on make out with you. I—wasn't sure how you'd feel about that."

Steve can feel the burn from his flush riding down his neck to his fingertips, stirring his nerves to life. "Was that—was that necking?" He blinks, gazing at her. "Did we neck?"

Beth tries not to laugh, keeping her expression to a minimal, cheeky grin. "Why, yes, I do think so, Soldier Steve."

His lips form a small 'o' in wonder. "Wow—I—" He pauses, trying to find the word. "I'm sorry if I couldn't keep up—I'm—I'm not a pro at that."

Her head tilts to keep at him. "You're not one for making out?"

He's too stunned by her directness to feel the heavy weight of silence on his tongue. He's sweating, Lord save him. "I just never found the right person for that kinda deal."

"Oh," her voice deflates. "I see."

This whole dating thing is a balancing act of spinning plates on high sticks—and Rogers isn't known for his grace. He's fumbling. He acts fast to catch her mood, thinking in earnest. He grasps her hand in his and brings it close, holding it against his chest. "Can't you feel that?"

Beth presses her hand on the cloth and honest to God can feel the  _pound_  of his heart. She's silent for a second and then—" It's rather that's a side effect of your injury—or you  _really_ thought kissing me was awesome."

Steve slides down to maintain eye-level with her, so low that he's able to rest his forehead against the side of her crossed arm. "I thought it was awesome," he says, thinking that the over-saturated word really does describe kissing Beth. Definitely aweing. Definitely something.

She smiles brighter than all the neon lights racing outside of their tiny, warm, dark little part of the metal enclosed universe. It's brighter than the spotlights above New York, more glittery than the pepper of the Milky-way.

Content, Steve breathes in and out against her, his mouth still tingly from kissing her for such a long time. It feels like seconds have gone by, but they're still about an hour out from riding back to her apartment. Her fingers glide back and forth along his shoulder. It feels like he's swallowed electricity and it's running up and down his veins in a pattern—but it's almost soothing. The hum from the motor turns into background noise, and he can just focus on her breathing, trying to match her cool-look.

The soft cardigan jacket wrapped around Beth's shoulders ends in tiny tassels of cotton. Steve reaches out idly, rolling the strings between his fingertips. It reminds him of rolling his old man's cigarettes. It reminds him of slipping one from a pack and handing it to Bucky—still weary of ever trying to smoke again, even as a Super Soldier, least he still have an embarrassing asthma attack in front of the military's best and brightest.

The train spins silently on, and, without her as teasingly close as she was before, he feels so cold.

"I think I made my fever worse," Steve admits lowly. He glances at her sheepishly. "It's so odd. I know it's warm in here, but I'm freezin'."

"Probably," Beth agrees with a nod. "But it means a lot that you're telling me you don't feel well."

Without even asking, she's close again, like a beautifully smelling blanket. Beth's soft blue eyes study Steve, and she reaches out to touch at the side of his cheek, and glides her fingers along the back of his neck—running her fingers through his hair. Distracted by this, his fingers stop playing with the strings, and he slowly lets his hands drop along the seat. His eyes close, and he leans back once more, trying not to think about anything but her. He can't do this to himself right now. He can't start slipping. He tries to just marvel in how it feels so good to have her touching him—the rolling of the train beats out a subtle rhythm that's slowly lulling him to keep his eyes closed, but he forces them back open.

At the fluttering of his eyes, Beth glances back over in alarm. She had been watching him closely, a look of disquiet in her face, and suddenly she feels caught.

" _Ah_ —sorry. Do you want me to stop?"

"No," he sighs the word softly. "No—that's— " he's blushing again, he's so terrible at telling folks what he wants, what he enjoys. "That really feels nice, honestly."

Beth's fingers slowly continue to massage through his hair. "You look," She struggles not to say  _drunk_. She still can't tell. Sometimes it seems like he  _could_  be—sometimes it seems like he's just sick. She couldn't taste any alcohol through the kiss like she could with some guys—but it's so terribly vexing. "…tired." She finally settles for a word. "Did, um, your Doctor friend… he looked at your side okay, yeah? You said before…but I just…"

Steve has to force his thoughts stay concrete through the movement of her fingers. "Uh—m'yeah—he looked at it, like I mentioned. He jus' said what everyone else has been saying: don't be so careless."

"I can't imagine you being careless about anything, Steve. You seem like you can't help but overthink things—even little details."

"A guess a man can only be safe for so long before something slips." Steve says slowly.

Beth sighs. With the way he's said that, so dejectedly, she can't seem to summon up enough courage to ask why he was drinking in the first place. Maybe there was a good reason.

"No one has to be perfect 24/7. And I'm just glad it—well. That…uh, that I could help you before it got worse. Like if someone else might've found you or…just…just worse."

"Mm," Steve says closely on the subject. "It'll heal up fine, m'sure."

Beth's fingers go back to kneading along his neck. And suddenly she spots the perfect opportunity to find out how far she can push her unanswered questions.

"You know, I was going to ask you about that. About your side. I was…" she tries not to stammer herself. "I would like to see your side. Sometime soon. If that's okay with you. I just…" her expression is hard to read in the twisting shadows. "It's true that I'm not a doctor. I'll probably never get to be one…but I worry that you might be hiding how bad it really is. Because it seemed pretty terrible before."

"See it?" Steve considers sluggishly. He supposes it can't be that bad, even after Logan. His hand was perfect, after all. "I just hope that can wait till we're someplace more private?"

She giggles at his hopelessly unshielded sleepiness; the hot flush from her skin pours across him, and he can't help but nearly moan at how good it feels to be  _warm._  Like she honestly considered having him take off his shirt right here on the train. Maybe if  _she_  were drunk...or if she had magically turned into Ronda. "Of course somewhere private, silly. That would make me feel better. I just…worry."  _And so do your friends_ , Beth can't help think.

"I know," Steve murmurs softly. "But it's s'alright now."

The warmth of her fingers along his neck makes him feel all the more drowsy, and the darkness, motion of the train, and her quietly talking to him isn't helping—he jerks awake again, completely uneasy at the idea of sleeping in public—and being rude to Beth. But… being with her, not having to worry about Tony's comments… or Thor being invariantly loud…or being alone... He glances halfheartedly about the train, and finds that no one is aware. Folks are cramped against the windows, huddled around white screens and earbuds deep into their own thoughts. He settles deeper into his seat, and decides that if can't be so bad if no one's looking…

And then someone is suddenly whispering his name. Something soft touches his forehead and blocks out the lights of the train further from his eyelids. He nearly falls deeper into the contented darkness.

"Steve?" Beth asks quietly. "Cozy, huh?"

He's somehow nodded off into her shoulder, but instantly he perks up. He blinks blearily. Clears his throat.

"Yes?" He answers, completely dazed.

"It's okay, y'know?" She smiles at him delicately, smoothing through his hair again. "Relax."

"It's fine." He finds himself guiltily caught in the act. "I'm fine."

She leans in, eyeing the circles under his eyes. His still faintly smells of whiskey, and that snaps her out of kissing him again.  _Could you take advantage of a guy with just kisses?_  She puzzles with an internal lament. She sort've wishes she had the nerve to keep kissing him away. "We've still got a while before we're at my place. If you're sleepy, you can just rest against me."

"I suppose I could rest my eyes?" He offers, but he swears her blue eyes are dangerously mischievous. He can tell she's trying not to a laugh. "What is it?"

"I haven't heard someone say that in a long time."

"Resting my  _eyes_ ," He says again, pushing his nose against her collarbone for emphasis, and can feel her soft inhale in response.

"If you say so," She nuzzles into his neck playfully and pulls away, but she keeps her hand along his neck, trailing down his hair…

…Somewhere between the 11th stop and the 39th, Steve can't recall how much time has passed, or if they've missed their stop all together. Beth's quietly talking about something that happened recently—something about a movie with some actor or somethin'. He keeps stubbornly responding to her pauses, her breaks in breathing, her questions, but every time he goes to respond, it's harder to make a sound. Eventually he's pretty sure he's lost all sense of what she's saying.

"…Steve?"

His name. He does know that. "Mm?"

"You just don't give up, do you." He can feel her body resting against him, her voice quiet, even to him. It's not a question.

He goes to respond—something with his mouth—maybe smile—but he's greeted with a soft, warm kiss that lingers over his jaw and he tries to respond but her fingers fall back through his hair and  _it just feels_   _so nice_   _and—_

Sleep.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fell in love with the way you fall asleep; slowly and then all at once.  
> Loving you wasn't on my radar. But drooping eyelids have a way
> 
> of sneaking up on me. The caffeine kicked in hours ago, and  
> it's been hours since I've checked the clock. The natural light
> 
> is gone. Only you remain. Have you been there all this time?  
> I have a weekend's worth of work to do, but
> 
> the warm mug you're holding smells like Christmas and it's  
> beckoning me to bed. It's not just nutmeg, however,
> 
> that's hypnotizing. It's your haberdasher hearsay and  
> kilogram cologne. It's this damn down comforter that
> 
> just became. so. heavy. The funny thing is, I never  
> remember falling asleep. All I know is reality is in
> 
> the past and now I'm in dreamland and I love you  
> and it's raining chardonnay. I've been pulling allnighters
> 
> my whole life. So, let's sleep in tomorrow.  
> I have an awful lot to catch up on.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> AN: Kissin' and snugglin' and sleepin'. I can't deal. Can you guys deal? I can't my feelings.
> 
> Expect a part two of Steve and Beth coming up. Girl got questions.


	34. Warrior Of A Paper Shield, Part 1

**AN #1:**  …Well hi there everyone! I'm  _so, so, so_  very sorry for dropping off the face of the earth, but the reality is that old Kay had to focus on classes and her slipping grades, but soon this semester will be over…so guess who has a two part chapter for you lovely readers? Please, please do enjoy. I always smile when I see new favourites and followers—and to anyone that's still reading this novel-thing, thank you so very much. Perhaps let me know what you think so far?

Do think of these two chapters as one complete chapter because frankly I can't shut up.

 **AN #2:**  My God. I've reached an all-time low for how cheesily romantic I can be. I AM NOT ASHAMED. IT WAS SWEET AND FUN TO WRITE AND GOSH DARN IT YOU'RE ALL GOING TO ENJOY IT. THANK YOU.

* * *

When she receives her first text from Ronda, Beth is nervous to even look. She had sent out a text to the fux-blonde about fifteen minutes before to no response. And not answering a cellphone was almost as obvious as not answering the door when you know someone is home. All Beth put in her text was:  _I'll be home soon. Safely. I promise._

She takes a peek.

_I don't believe you, Beth. 1:22 am_

[Beth] _We're fine, Ron. We're on the number One heading back in Manhattan right now. 1:22 am._

_Bullshit. Pic or it didn't happen. 1:22 am._

[Beth] _He's asleep. What do you want me to do? 1: 22 am_

_Really? When did you lose him? 1: 23 am_

[Beth] _Somewhere around the time when he agreed that Russell Crowe's singing in Les Mis was decent. No conscious person would think that. Like. Ever. People that don't even like musicals agree about that. 1:23 am._

_Hm…Good defense…Still not buying it. 1:23 am._

[Beth] _Ugh. 1:24 am._

_Well? 1:25 am_

[Beth] _He's asleep! I'm reaching "Twilight" levels of bad if I take a picture of him sleeping. Is that what you want me to become?_

_Sparkle, sparkle. 1:25 am._

[Beth] _ **[attached media message]**  There. See? Now I'm officially more creepy than this Hitler Mustache's homeless dude across aisle. . . . he just smiled at me. Are air-to-lip-neo-nazi herpes possible to catch?_

_WHOA. Pics of THAT dude, or that didn't happen, pls! 1: 27am._

[Beth] _Just for that I'm turning off my phone. 1:27am_

_WAIT. Wait, okay. I'm serious now. Have you asked yet? 1:27 am._

[Beth] _I'm working on it… thanks. He's been asleep for a while now. Like super, duper dead asleep. I guess they train people in the military to sleep anywhere. Never thought that would include a subway. You want me to wake him up and demand he take off his shirt? 1:28 am._

_Can't say that doesn't sound like a bad idea. You will take pictures, right? 1:28 am._

[ Beth] _Uh-huh. Pictures. You want pictures. 1:28 am._

_For evidence that he isn't LYING, Beth. Very funny. 1:29 am._

[Beth] _He isn't going to sue you, girl. He isn't. He doesn't even think in that kind of way. He's just…it's hard to explain. 1:30 am._  
  
The world falls silent for a while. The subway rushes on; the hypnotic squares of the windows fill up, giving up their white lights through the tunnel passaged ways. She only looks away when there's a small shake inside of her hand.

_YOU'VE KISSED HIM!11 1:33 am_

[Beth] _HOW DO YOU KNOW THESE THINGS?! 1:34 am_

_Because it's been like, seven years of knowing you, and, no offense, but you're a little horny. 1:35 am_

She sputters hair out of her mouth to suppress a chortle.

_[Beth]Low. Blow. It's different this time, Ronda. I don't even have the words for explaining it. Yeah, okay, so I jumped his bones. But you know what? I felt so…comfortable doing that. I wasn't just pretending and hoping and praying that he'll just stay and I don't have to think about TBoNY. 1:37am_

_You know, it just hit me how "The Battle of New York" looks like T-Bony. There's a joke there…ugh, too tired to think of it. 1:38 am_

Quickly, Beth opens her phone, huddling over the bright light to stop it from bothering the other passengers, and taps Ronda's name.

There is a single ring.

"Beth?" Just hearing her best friend's voice makes Beth feel like she's back on solid ground, and not lost in the chaos of Steve's friends, or Natasha's eyes, or anything she couldn't handle.

"Sorry—I just wanted to tell you this as close as I can in person," Beth whispers as quietly as she can, leaning carefully away from the sleeping soldier.

"You're stage whispering, I hope you know." Ronda snaps. "Don't ever become an actress."

" _Ronda_ —I know it's late and you're crabby. But I just wanted to thank you so very, very much for putting up with everything that has happened. For taking my shift at  _Salto_ …and bills and just…well, now, three days ago where I probably was the biggest mess you've ever seen me."

There is a sharp pause. "Well, I  _am_  still pretty pissed at you for avoiding my calls. I know you've gotten my message. I don't know anyone else that actually uses a tape answering machine anymore. When that light flashes, it's  _not_  Avon calling. It's my  _anger._   _Please_  tell me you listened to it."

The blonde's voice is almost inaudible. "I have. I did."

"And?"

"Ronda…I can't talk about it right now. Not right next to Steve. What if he's listening?"

"Slap him. If he doesn't respond, you're good."

Beth's teeth come together and grind ever so slightly. "No."

Another pause. Ronda sighs. "I'm sorry. That was mean. I just—don't—freaking—get—it. He bled on you. Some stranger had to carry him to you home. I watched you—" Beth can feel the tremble in Ronda's tone. "I watched you throw up over  _nine_  times. I thought he  _hurt_  you. I just can't stop thinking about how this is bad, Beth. And now you won't even talk to me about—"

"I'm working on finding out about Steve, okay?!" Beth shrills heatedly—but clasps a hand over her own mouth. Her blue eyes flicker to Steve, but his face shows absolutely no sign of consciousness. "It's not a 'won't', it's a 'can't'. It's a 'Not right now'."

"I've given up a lot of my friggin' free time for you, Beth." Ronda replies, her voice rising. "Covering and Lord knows what else. I just wish you'd spare a  _second_  to talk to me about important things. Like what I  _saw."_  
  
"I'm trying, Ronda." Beth breathes out in frustration. "I'm so sorry."

"Whatever. You did text me about meeting his friends. Was…you know…. _he_  there?"

Beth's train of thought shutters out. "No— _he_  wasn't. But we'll talk soon, okay? I just wanted to call and thank you. And apologise."

Another second of waiting, and Beth can still feel how Ronda's sinking into a well of holding back her own scream. "Yeah, okay. I get it. I'm sorry, too. I love you. Know that even when I'm acting like a complete bitch? I'm just…worried. You  _scare_  me, and that's something I thought I'd never say about…you."

"It's funny that you can see it now," Beth says, meaning to sound witty but the words come out  
cold. "I scare me, too."

* * *

There's a fine rattle of keys as she works the deadbolt to the front door. The spheres of snow are made of heavy swoops that run outside the circles of the street lamps; the humming lights casting heat that pours along the faintly icing cement just beyond Beth's apartment steps. Whenever she exhales, her breath is apparent in the air.

"I always carry too many keys, and they never go to the right doors," she says briskly, trying to keep the shake out of her voice. Turns out that once it hits past midnight in Manhattan, the metal of an oblong key to skin feels like a lit match.

Steve keeps turning to glance backwards from where they've walked since the station. "That's awfully poetic."

"I have a theory that everything sounds poetic at 2 in the morning."

Steve chuckles. "Aren't you at all tired?"

"Not at tired as you were," she says lightheartedly. She stops for a second to look over her shoulder at him, all smiles and eyes with a gently falling gleam about their usual banter. "Although I had fun kissing you while it lasted."

Steve thumbs at his nose, sniffs, and pretends to not feel so itchingly abashed right down to his socks. "Right. The—kissing. That just was…unexpected."

She pushes the lock harder—and despite the loose wristed attempt of her hand, Steve can hear the harsh tremble of tumblers working themselves inside the lock. She's nearly there. "You don't care for PDA?"

"PDA?"

"Public displays of affection, soldier Steve."

Now he's really blushing. "Actually, I don't mind that so much."

"Do you?"

The lock stands at a still point where Steve can hear the sharp intake of her breathing, a silent prayer before giving up; A small bundle of golden anguish on a doorstep. He's concentrated on the door that he realises his pause is a tad too drawn out. "I think you've nearly got it, Beth."

She raises her brow in disbelief. Her voice feels hollow as if she's waiting to be tricked. "If you insist—"

Suddenly, the door is open. Slowly, Beth shrinks the key back into her jacket. "Uh. You were right."

Steve measures himself against the door frame, holds open the door, and lets her walk through first. He pats his pockets once more—the thin, edge of the paper slides under his fingernails. A shiver runs up his spine. "Nah. Just used to getting locked out of places."

_Like the seemingly hundreds of recruitment offices that he'd stand outside of in the heat of the morning or the dust of the winter…_

…and suddenly, in the dark of the apartment, Steve finds himself alone. The twinkle of glass in the windows, mucked with blue, grey, sloshing of snow, rains like tiny fingers gently tapping in time with the wind. The whole room still smells faintly of Incense—and Beth, if Steve allowed himself to zero in on her entirely, but it was slowly becoming alarmingly untraceable, and if not focusing on it meant that her movements were like spring a-new, he'd just have to take the high road. Everything was still motionless and crisp from lack of someone to dawdling along the carpet, no one to turn on the lights. The tiny Christmas tree in the corner has stopped its dance, and it fills Steve with a strange melancholy. He presses a hand firmly to the wallpaper, but strictly stops himself from continuing with the idea of meandering for a switch. He'd probably knock down a painting with his grace. He decides to gingerly pull the tree's stand closer, and settles back on the couch, idling turning the tree branches with a finger. Every half a rotation he can make out his shield through the dark, hiding at its heart.

The plastic barbs eat at Steve's skin as he reaches inward, sliding the paper shield under the edge of his finger nail, pulling it through. And there, in his palm, lies a rather lopsided mess of Beth's handiwork for his shield. He can't help but give it a work over on what he could do with it if he had some spare time, and perhaps a few sharper pencils. Maybe he could make her a new shield. Maybe one that wasn't so distressed. He runs his thumb over the raised indents from how hard she was pressing the colour, and slowly smiles. It is very endearing lil' trinket.

"What are you doing, sitting here in the dark?"

Suddenly she's there, and Steve is instantly aware that this was hidden, and he purposely found it, and that he suddenly  _really_  doesn't want to talk about his weapon of choice that he's pounded into other men's  _throats_  with his gal in the dark. In a panic he quickly slides it into pocket of his jeans, praying that his frantic fingers didn't tear the thing to bits.

It's so quick that she's there right by him on the couch, knees folded up under her. She practically jumped onto the cushion. "Would you like me to turn that on?"

He quickly wipes a sheer layer of clamminess from his hands. "No, no, it's fine. I just wasn't sure where you had gone off to."

"Sorry," she says breathily. "I just wanted to change quickly. The cold stuck to me."

And quickly she certainly had, Steve surmises. Her hair is a first-rate nest, but she certainly looks more comfortable. She quickly moves a few fingers to remove some hair from her eyes. Even the dim light, Steve's grateful he can look at her and not feel so wrong about just how perfectly he can see her. Steve always enjoyed the small bit of his powers; in the dark, his brothers in arms, his friends. It's so surreal how people change when no one can see them.

"Oh, hold on." She suddenly pops off the couch again, scrounging around for a blanket in a basket near the bookshelf. A heavy looking furry quilt is soon wrapped in her arms.

"So…you mentioned getting locked out of places? That sounds like a story."

There's no better way to put this: Beth simply glides around her living room in socks. They're the ankle kind, cut off just at where a stocking would have begun. There's a hollow ache in Steve's bones for possibility seeing a stocking as you could with the dames that made those spread out ads for them…but then again, perhaps it's for the best Beth wasn't keen on them to begin with.

"Aheh," Steve clears his throat. "I was kicked out of a lot of um, recruiting offices. For the war effort." He can see the blue narrow in her eyes, the slight bottomless sink of disbelief to their shine. "They didn't think I was cut out for it."

Her toe touches the leg of the couch, and she sits back down. "But you kept trying?"

"Always," His reply is instant—nearly over taking Beth's question.

There's a bit of an awkward conflicting of words—Steve's tongue scrapes over his teeth in a sudden halt—but Beth merely continues through the barricade.

"I think that's wonderful that you didn't give it up."

He fully turns to look at her in the dark, although it's senseless to do so. "Do you?"

"Well, maybe I'm just biased because of my brother and what he's been through…but I do feel that not all things are worth fighting for—but there's always this…this relief when you know there's an end to them. And well, how can you go on if you aren't even sure when the pain is over?"

Steve leans back, shifting his arm to rest along the couch, barely touching her shoulder blades. Centimeters away and she still feels warm. She breathes in deep in the dark, and Steve wishes he knew how to go on from that. It's on the tip of his lips…if he could just tell Beth about Bucky. Maybe could talk to her about what he's done with Logan…maybe it'll start to make sense…

"Like, um," There's a twist in the dark blue throw covering her knee as she lays a hand to stop her leg from bouncing anxiously. "Like, this week will mark over a month of working this waitressing job that I haven't been fired from."

"Why would you be—"

"Because the first job was a test of getting out of bed. A real reason to move." Beth says calmly, her tone trying to be amusing but sounding more and more stressed. A breath through her nose.

"The third was walking down the street and believing that the sky wasn't going to fall. The fifth was for Ronda, but that didn't last very long as you can't live for someone else. The seventh was…probably the hardest, but I could deal with being compacted around other people, finally. I mean, it's New York—I have to  _get over myself_  at some point, or… just go home. The tenth was the worst, as I took a job trying to care for the real victims of the attack, and the second I saw an open wound I couldn't  _breathe_  anymore. That was when I knew I couldn't be a doctor—that my degree was pretty worthless for the tier that I wanted. And this…this'll be the fourteenth."

She stops herself short of going on. She nearly feels sick telling a freakin'  _soldier_  of everything she's ever considered hard. It's just not fair for Steve to hear.

She's so small beside him. Slowly, Steve moves a hand to touch the small of her back. The shame on her frozen face is somehow even harder to withstand in the nightfall. It touches everything and nothing. It might as well be the darkness itself.

"Well, you know, the fourteenth time is the charm," Steve says into a near whisper. "You say you're proud of me for getting into the army, but outside of it…that's a whole new war that I have no idea how to face. In a way, you didn't give up as well."

She moves closer so that she's pressed into his side. "I did, though, for a while." She pauses again. A hand runs down her face. "Well, maybe it's a mixture of both. Maybe I gave up on myself and other people gave up on me—and I don't know who was more wrong in the end, but I know that it's over—that was my point." She gives a small muffled laugh to cheer herself up. "My point was that it's a new thing. I hope."

Steve swallows dryly at her words, letting them sink in.  _An end. An end to mourning. Should I just embrace that Bucky's…alive_?

"When do you work next?"

"Hold on," She slides up from the couch and grasps up a remote to turn on her television set. The sudden shock of bright light across the room makes Steve's eyes inch until they start to water. Her eyes flicker to a square, digital clock over her movie player. "In...oh…today."

 _"Today_?" Steve's voice takes on that same concerned tone from their first date, by the door, where he couldn't get over the very idea of keeping her out so late. "And—and you're just perfectly fine with my bothering you in your home at 2 am and you're working today? You haven't even slept yet!"

"Sure," Beth adds cheekily, because Steve's overreactions are beginning to be her favourite reactions in her well-mannered boyfriend. "I can choose what I want to do with my time, you know."  
 _  
Give it a rest, Steve._  Instantly, the soldier straights up. "Of course, I understand that, but it's …" A sigh. Now it's Steve's turn to rub at his temples. "…You're making time for me…when there are…more important things."

She sits back down, her lips slightly drawn in consideration. "Well, yeah, I want to make time for you, Steve. I've gotten to meet your friends, spend time with them, but at the end of the day…I miss you."

The light from the television flickers across outline of her chin, her lips, her hairline, and it's almost as if she's a moving clip that sometimes is black and sometimes is white, but never lastingly in full colour. She looks pale and sleepy, but she's still sitting beside him without a word about it otherwise.

"I care about you," Beth finishes gently.

Steve's eyes feel all the more itchy and watery after he's heard her softly and wholeheartedly telling him that she's  _making time for him._  It's like for the twenty-four years he's been alive he suddenly can't believe that there's still time for him that isn't just stolen away. That it was possible to make time and it wasn't some force that was a draining, uncontrollable, cruelty.

"I—I'm just not used to that." Steve admits slowly. He's forcing himself to physically try to get the words out. He can't even mask it.

Steve's face looks so agonizingly upset that Beth feels floored.  _It's almost that same look after I_ , she cringes,  _asked him to dance_. She warily raises a hand to rest along his arm.  _He's gotta be thinking about her…again…or something just awful._  "I'm so sorry…" is all she says, unsure of what else to say, or add. She clicks the TV back off.

"It's not my place to be given time, or take anyone else's."

"You make my time meaningful, Steve. I'd be…I don't even know where I'd be without your time, too."

A snort through his nose, and Beth can feel a rush of heat down his arm, the tightening of muscle. It almost feels…angry? There's that pin-point-to-the-small-of-your-back-feeling of being watched in the dark. "You don't want to sleep at all?"

She avoids the question. "Speaking of which, I guess it's safe to say you aren't drunk."

The soldier raises his brows steadily in surprise, although it's silly to react so non-committal in the dark. He clears his throat. "I'm drunk?" _  
_  
"Was going to say: you do look _a lot_  better now."

 _Perk of being a super soldier_ , Steve digresses. "I  _was_ drunk?"

She laughs playfully. "Or maybe you still are."

The shock has strangle hold on his tone. "How did you know I was even drinking?"

"When you sat down I had no clue, but when you leaned in close…no offence Steve, but you smelt like you spent the whole day in a bar." She moves her hand again to touch his arm. "You don't have to tell me why…but I really,  _really_ hope you do. Just sayin'."

Steve drags in a long breath, halfway tempted to just hum a few bars of "Star Spangled Man With The Plan" and come out about being Captain America with a full on musical revival, because he just knows he's reaching more and more levels of lying mediocrity. It's gonna kill him. "You remember that friend we made this morning?"

"Logan—something?"

"Yeah. Full name, actually."

"…Who has just has a first name? I thought only famous people did that, and even then, it's really pretentious."

Steve gives a single shrug of just one shoulder. He's really bad at the whole 'we're in the dark' deal. Well, Beth is metaphorically in the dark, anyhow and…  _Use your words, Rogers._  "I have some choice words that could describe him as well…"

"Well—what did he say? Hold you at hairy gun point and force you to a bar?"

"In a way." Steve trails on. "He said he was in my infantry team for a time. He, uh, met my friend, Bucky. The one I told you about? Who was declared KIA?... Would only talk about if we went somewhere private."

"That's not suspicious at all," Beth says instantly, her manner a wild mix of intrigue and sarcasm.

"Right?" Steve agrees with a steeled smirk. "Well—um." He drops out. He can't bring himself to say it without sounding either like a complete bastard or a sap.

Beth's fingers smooth down to curl around his wrist. "Yeah?"

"Said he was 'live," Steve mutters into the dark. The words feel stuck in his throat.

"What?"

"Alive." Steve affirms closely. "I…I don't know how. Or why. But that my best friend—could be alive."

Her glee lights up the living room. "Oh my GOD! How in the  _hell_ —out of thin  _air_ —Where?! Did Logan say? How long has it been?! Steve—you must be over-joyed! I—" A pause when Steve doesn't move. Her heart beats rapidly as she studies the shadow of his spine bending down, his face in his hands. "Except…you got…drunk? Out of…celebration?" She presses gradually.

"Started that way." He swallows thinly. "But things got sort've heated real quick." He hisses out from between his teeth and manages quickly: "You know what you said just a minute'a go? About things being done and said for? I just— "He can feel the blood shooting to pulse inside of his ears, and knows his voice is getting louder, but  _dammit_ — "I thought I was maybe getting over that a bit. But…he had to —" He nearly swears, it's on the edge of his teeth, but somehow he bites it back. "Logan had to go kick up dirt and I feel like I've been drunk-punched back to square one. I mean, what doI even  _do_  with information like that? Goin' to—"

_Germany, some mountains, that missing door, those folks with masks, Logan's scar—_

"Steve?" Beth's voice is suddenly high. "I  _know_  you're upset—but people are gonna wake up."

He stops. His jaw is officially wired shut _. It's what you get for even attempting to make sense of your world, Rogers_ , he snaps at himself.

"I'm sorry." He sucks in air loudly, hating how metallic it tastes on the back of his tongue, hating how rude that sound probably is with no other body language to distract Beth from noticing it. "And there goes my proof to convince you I'm not drunk." He replies hoarsely.

"You're angry. There doesn't have to be an excuse," Beth says quickly. The off-coloured glint of blue eyes glancing at her ceiling and then down again. "We're good. Mrs. Shate upstairs is basically deaf anyways. Just that's…a lot to think about. Wow."

"Wow," Steve echoes, but magic of that phrase sounds dead to his ears. He breathes out slowly for a final time. "I've never felt this way before. It's a God blessed miracle if it's true, but…" A shake of his head. The room spins a little—strangely watery at the corners. He moves to wipe at his face, merely because he knows Beth can't see him. Thank God he's better at bluffing with a stable voice. "This terrible part of me…wishes that maybe he'd stayed dead. I can't put my finger…on why…I guess it's just…"

Steve closes his eyes, forcing himself not to possibly crack. He'd have to have more sense than this. He can't just break on her again. How many more times could he even be this close before she'd want nothing to do with him?

Beth blinks slowly, studying Steve's shadow-filled, featureless face, trying to pull out an answer that maybe he wants to hear. Only to realise that this is exactly why Steve's probably willing to talk about it at all. Considering how guarded he is—he barely could confess to being cold. She's sailing alone tonight.

"Maybe it isn't that you don't want him to not be alive." Beth answers slowly, trying to get the idea of death out Steve's thoughts. "But…that maybe he's changed?" She leaves the question in the air for a while. "And…I only say that because I'm terrified that when my brother comes back…he won't be my brother anymore."

She can feel Steve nod—the movement shaking his still body. She schooches closer. His voice is a faint whisper next to her ear. "I don't know if I can handle one more thing to change."

"I want things to last, too. I want people for… forever. But that's my whole problem: forever doesn't exist, but we always pretend that it does." She muffles herself into the crook of his arm. "But I want it too,  _so badly."_

Steve's arm moves itself out of her grasp to wrap around her shoulders. It's still strained in his body—Beth can feel him actively thinking about every movement, as if he's still somehow worried about hurting her. Her eyes jump her bedroom door, to the drawer in her nightstand. The panic button, untouched, was still active. She lays her head onto his shoulder as they both stare at the black TV screen.

"Why do we chase after things that won't ever exist?" She asks him, unable to see anything.  ****  
  
A shrug of his large shoulders is all she gets, slightly pushing them apart.

It's quiet for a long, long time.

* * *

For a moment—she feels like she's  _flying._

Her hair chases down her neck, fluttering into the swing—she feels so light, like she could be a part of Tarzan, leaping from thick, foliaged tree trunks, so very high over with all beautiful manner of tropical birds and for once, over the horizon, there's no metal, no towers, no crashing down space ships—just blue sky and—

She's suddenly tossed straight out her fantasy and onto the lumpy, mountainous spring of her bed. There's a stinging gash to her tongue from where's she's bitten it in surprise. And, even more so, suddenly there's Steve braced on top of her, arms holding him from basically crushing her, but she could work with this.  _Whoa. Please Universe…if I'm still dreaming, then I won't need to shower and be all neat for what's about to go down…_

 _"Sorry!"_  Steve says instantly to her wide, half-awake eyes, his breath hot on her cheek and an over-all blathering mess. He instantly rolls away—letting off a soft 'oomfph' as he hits the carpet on his back. "I should've known I'd lack the skill to pull this off. But I just couldn't leave you there on the sofa—"

She giggling like mad, mouth open, swept away by the fact that she was being carried like some dumb, frilly princess—God, wouldn't Ronda just die?—and wait,  _leaving?_

"Leaving?!" She practically shrieks, knees kicking away from the ceiling as if she could already seeing the crawling of beady-eyed shadows waiting to drop down. She's leaning over the edge of the bed, her hair billowing down, long and wavy, nearly touching his face. He looks up at her, blinking a bit in confusion. Beth stares back, blushing, and slowly pulls her face out of view.  _Okay…maybe that didn't sound as outrageously desperate as you thought..._

"Y-yeah," Steve allows minimally, blue eyes working over the situation. So far he's tried to be a gentleman and not leave her alone in the dark on her couch at 2 in the morning…but then he stumbled and dropped her. If only he knew what to do to make up for something as lousy as that. "I figured I'd get out of your way, let you finally sleep. To be honest, I felt bad for even movin' you."

Beth feels her fingers digging into her pillow.  _It's okay. If he wants to leave, that's cool. You don't have to go to sleep, technically, you can just…lay here and breathe._  She puts on a brave face and pulls herself back up from her tangled sheets. "It is late, I suppose." She dares to put her legs on the carpet and hopes they don't tremble.

Steve tilts his head slightly. "You okay there, doll?"

 _Shit,_  She thinks, although she smirks at the pet name and is grateful for the slight reprieve of not thinking of how to arrange her face into an 'okay' position. "Yeah—" She adds a touch of laughter. "I was  _just_  thrown."

He grin unfurls, a tad mortified. "I was just trying to be...uh, romantic?"

"You, my good sir, need to give a girl a warning.  _'Specially_  you." Beth remarks wittily. She grabs his hand and leads him back towards the door. Somehow the living room feels smaller and smaller. "Besides, I haven't been carried since I was like—eleven—"

Steve wraps his fingers tight in hers, and is glad that she isn't thinking of the more recent time Thor's carried her home. Using her free hand, she quickly grazes her fingers along the side of his shirt—and then suddenly she pauses. Her eyebrows furrow. "Huh."

"Hm?"

"I thought I'd feel bandages still here," she says hazily, patting gently under his rib cage, the soft fabric bunching up between a closed fist.

"Hey!" Steve weakly tries press her hand away— "That tic—tickles!—what're you doing?"

"Lemme see your side!" She drums her fingers playfully like a piano up his skin.

"Okay! Okay! Yikes, didn't expect an attack!" Steve chuckles thickly, two-stepping away from her, noting how hard it really is to get space between himself and someone a good while shorter. He thinks he's giving in quicker than he probably should, but flexes his re-rently healed hand and gives a silent prayer. He really isn't sure what it'll look like now, or what it's s _upposed_  to look like for Beth's sake.

He stills for a moment, but his heart rate picks up into the center of his skull—pounding, pounding, pounding. He clears his throat, gives a small measured count, and lifts up one side. He keeps his eyes straight to the ceiling, unable to dare what Beth's seeing. But she isn't suddenly all in a tizzy, so…he only can wait.

The tip of her finger traces the outside of the bruise—circling around its oval pattern with a kind of shaking movement. She goes back around it, and startlingly moves her face close to his side—it takes years of Generals yelling bloody murder at Steve to not flinch away from her—her moist breath is so close to his naked skin that he has to repress a shiver.

"Everything alright down there?"

A slight flip of her hair to move it out of her eyes. "It's hard to tell. Like. It's just so weird. There are these stitches from your doctor friend, but they look almost ready to come out. But…it's been days, Steve. How does that even happen?" A finger is at her own lips, and she's mindlessly chewing on a nail. "And yet it seems a little raw, too. Yellow and purple. And…there's this secondary tissue that looks nothing like your—like'a—" Suddenly she bops up—a hand quickly holds his shoulder. He can feel all of the bones in her fingers pressing into his shoulder blade. "Did you and Logan  _fight?_  Is  _that_ what you meant before?"

He keeps his eyes to the door. Closes one eye that pounding in time with his heartbeat. Opens it again. He slowly looks down at her. "Yes—but it was only a scuffle. Nothing—too serious."

Her eyes are practically too big for her face. Her mouth slightly twisted up in resentment. "Nothing  _too_  serious, and yet he possibly punched you the side?!"

"It's like what I told you, Beth," Steve keeps his hands at his side in defeat; unsure of if this is when he hugs her, or if he should back away. "I wasn't lying about what he said. He told me that my best friend is alive after  _years_  of thinking the unimaginable and—I—couldn't take it."

She keeps her hands close to his side—palm frozen in midair, fingers bent as if she's trying to imagine the force that's ripped him open across Tony's floor. He really hopes she'll never see Thor like he did that night. It feels like an eternity of a silent, on-going argument that ends in a sigh. She looks up at him again to where Steve merely lowers his eyes and waits for a high buzzing to leave his ears. "He said some really terrible things to be about Bucky, Beth. I just blew my top. I wish you knew how ashamed I am. It's just a lot to take in at once."

She breathes in deep and sighs out from her nose.

"…I can't imagine what that's like, Steve. It's just." Steve watches as her eyes flicker to her answering machine. "I guess I can be a control freak, too. And _I_  even  _said_  you'd miss danger. But it looks like he came at you with a  _knife_  from the precision of the cut," Her voice gets painfully low. "And I just imagine you lying in a pool of blood on the ground again and I just—" She can't help but tremble again. Her fingers curl into the cloth of his shirt.

The words he wants to say _: no, don't, please don't cry, don't think about that, stop, please_  are a garbled in his throat. He wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her into him. Instead he murmurs:

"I know that I'm difficult. I saw that look in your eyes inside of the Waffle House, and, if you'd have told my friends that today, that I'm difficult, well, they'd have laughed right in your face—but the truth is that I'm just some idiot kid from Brooklyn that wants to make you happy, but that's hard because it's so difficult for me to spit things out." He goes quiet for moment, listening to her breathe against him. "But you've gotta believe me when I say this: we're a lot alike, me and you, and I think that's because we…deal…in separate hands, I guess. When you…feel…that sickness rising up inside of you, you went to other people. But me? I just wanted everything away. Like an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object."

 _I just wanted everything away…_ Beth's eyes open wide, fluttering against his skin. She can't help but flashback to her talk with his friends earlier…about his depression. To tell that to her own his own. Maybe he really is trying.

 _And it's not you're sneaking around either, Beth…_ her thoughts whisper.

She gives a tiny sniff that wrinkles her nose awfully cutely. "What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object?"

His jaw is locked. She can feel it through the top of her head. "I haven't the faintest."

She's staring at his wound again. Fingers smooth across the gash, and he twinges—and she keeps pokin' him. "Could you teach me?"

He grasps her hand to pull it away. He may be healing, but it still smarts. "What do you mean?"

"To fight. I know you're upset at what you've gotten into tonight, but…I guess if it was, like, at the gym—If, uh, you're not too busy working there already, that is. And your secret famous friend doesn't mind. We could work out together or something. I could feel better about defending myself, and you could maybe let that anger out."

Steve looks at her warily, and the confused exasperation is slaughtering. "You wanna learn how to…get stronger?"

"Yes," Beth says, her eyes tight and a strange passion behind them. She unfurls her fingers from his shirt. "Please."

"Well…I could arrange that, I think," Steve says nervously. "Could I let you know when that would work out?" He closes his eyes numbly to process how he could even begin the idea of bringing Beth to his gym. The looks he'd certainly get. And if Thor and the others suddenly showed up. He opens them wearily at her. She equally looks worn out.

"I—" She begins

"Don't be sorry," Steve cuts in. "This fight. This…nonsense. It won't happen again." Steve promises her, unsure of why he keeps promising her things that are harder and harder to avoid.

"No," Beth says carefully. "I was going to ask you…where were you during the Battle of New York?" Her fingers nervously twitching at her side. "You said you were called back for it before, but I've just couldn't find the right moment to ask." A small, defeated shrug. "I guess now I decided it was."

Her eyes are hypnotizing. His struggles to nearly tell her the truth.  _Just as the way she stared at me through the chaos._  "God—that was such a disaster around me. Maybe near the Grand Central Terminal?"

She studies his face for what seems like an immeasurable amount of time. "I was near my old job—sort've near there, really. We were shuffled into a hotel lobby." She explains quietly. "It was round, and there were just people  _everywhere_. Dirty and bleeding and hugging their children. I even stepped on someone's glasses—and I always wonder…did that person that lost those glasses… survive?"

A pause where she moves her hand back up to his face. "And then I remember the explosion…" her eyes narrow to take in the memory. "There was some kind of grenade tossed through the upper floor—"The blue in her eyes swallow him. "And I just thought that was it. It was over. For…all of us…but…somehow…"

Her eyes take in Steve's face. Trying to put her finger on what it is about him. Maybe she did just notice him in the turmoil. Maybe he was there, turning the stones or moving the bodies or a police officer's uniform with a gun. Maybe she's replacing his face out of comfort, or fear, or from when she at first saw him sketching golden angels at a patio table. She isn't sure.

 _Somehow_ he _saved us,_ Beth closes her eyes to push away the fire and ash, and think about the rare time she's ever met—and probably will ever again—a hero. But she can't find the words to tell Steve that. "Somehow we survived." She finally finishes.

The grief in Steve's eyes is nearly tangible. "I'm so sorry for what you have to suffer through."

"I'm not the victim anymore." Beth says slowly, tasting the words on her tongue. Her hand travels again to touch at his side. "I have to try to believe that. But, it looks like you're the one that's in pain right now."

"Could I ask something of you, then?"

"Sure," she says, once again, without even knowing what it is, but she's fighting not to smile at the idea of learning to fight for herself. Steve slowly takes her hand inside of his.

"You know…I'd much prefer if you could patch me up again. Would that be all right?"

"You don't have to patronize me, Steve," Beth objects directly—but her eyes light up unmistakably. Her fingers intertwine with his, and she's strongly pulling him back to her bathroom.

* * *

He keeps eyes glued to the tiles. He swears the fish and shells and turtles are mocking him, but he doesn't feel like he's drowning, and that's good. Beth's steady hands travel the length of his side, dabs of a few cotton balls over the newly formed slice (to which Steve grits at but refuses to make a noise) and carefully laces some butterfly bandages over.

The whole time she's desperately trying not to ogle him. Really, she isn't. But it's truly disarming to see Steve with his shirt off. It just isn't real. She's pretty sure Emma Stone said it best in "Crazy Stupid Love" when she groaned exasperatedly:  _IT'S LIKE YOU'RE PHOTO SHOPPED_. She resists running her hands down his abs. She's pretty sure she's got the willpower of an ox.

…If being an ox also meant you can't kiss-crazy your boyfriend's chest when patching up a wound that you indirectly caused him… What was she even saying? God, she can't even function. She drops his shirt down once more.

"Well," She admits in a shallow huff. "I can't really say I know if this is good or not." She darts her eyes to his, twitches a short smile, and then frowns. "But with your knack for trouble, I bet it could be better."

 _I'll have you know I'm top of the rock with my healing abilities, thank you, doll._  Steve thinks, letting the smug expression litter his lips. She takes a clean cotton ball and tosses it at his jerk-smile and his jerk-thoughts and his jerk-abs, but he catches it clear out of the air and flicks it into the trash. Beth can't help but think the words have a million different meanings when she mutters:

"Show off."

* * *

"You know, I didn't think it was true that the army teaches you to sleep anywhere. But it's true. You can sleep anywhere." She thinks as an afterthought. "I hope you got enough for a ride home."

"It's not so much anywhere." Steve says slowly. They're at her front door, and neither of them has actually moved to open it. Steve pretends it's much too cold, and tries to selfishly bend time to keep her close. "I think it's just traveling. The feeling of movement. It's…misplaced to me. I moved all the time during the war, and I guess I just fell right back into its pace."

"That's understandable. I guess I'm just used to being up late." She blows the strings of her blonde hair away from her forehead. "It's mornings that suck."

Steve scowls a bit at her. "I like the morning. I like seeing the sunrise."

"Really? In New York City?"

"Sure. Reminds me that another day is here."

"Well…where would any other day be, if not now?"

A shake of his head. "I just don't want to miss it."

"Yeah…well." She pauses again. A twitch to the corner of her mouth. "I'll see you tomorrow. Thank you for yet another day of…surprises. I really did love meeting your friends."

"I hope to meet more of yours as well," he adds. He leans in to hug her, and using nearly all of his will power, kisses her modestly on the cheek. "I'll call you."

More _friends?_  Beth sweats.  _Like, people outside of Ronda?_

"I can't wait," she beams—snuggled into his chest. He pulls away slowly, she swings open the door, and, although she wishes she could watch him walk into the snowy-streets, he's too soon gone. She has to close the door. She has to be alone.

She turns to face her bedroom, pads back towards it, toes sinking into the carpet. She sprints back through her bedroom before she knows something will lunge at her from the darkness but the room just keeps getting smaller and smaller.

* * *

 **EAN:**  Please go right on to part two for the  _actual end_  of this chapter because I'm long winded…but really, are any of you really all that surprised by that? And oh, goodness, please review if you can! That means SO much to me!


	35. Warrior Of A Paper Shield, Part 2

"So what you're saying then Captain—may I call you Captain?"

"I—Well, that's—"

"Captain, is it true that you're currently dating Black Widow?"

There is a tight glare from bulbous lights eating up the background. He's squinting and squinting, but beyond the lights it's nothing but shadow. Steve knows hundreds of faces are watching him, though. In truth, he isn't bothered so much by a working crew. They're just a part of the war machine of flashy, pressed media. The average blue-collar Joe, needing a paycheck. It isn't his first time on a closed set with too many cameras and a fuzzy, oblong looking boom-stick hanging mere inches above his mask. He just wishes he could focus properly, but he might as well be entirely alone with millions of invisible eyes gawking at him.

"I'm sorry," He says again, politely re-setting his eyes to the news anchor, a young man named Chris, whom before sitting down had asked Steve to sign just about everything on his desk. "Could you repeat the question?"

"Of course, sir. The most recent poll of  _U.S. Weekly_  wants to know: are you currently seeing The Black Widow of  _The Avengers_  squadron?"

For a moment, Steve's glad he's wearing his mask—that no one in the room knows who he is, or the unreal seriousness that this question is actually being taken. He had come here because Tony couldn't. Wouldn't.

…And now he understands why.

His pause crackles the mic. He shifts his shoulders self-consciously. "Uh—I don't follow? I thought these questions would help clear up public view of The Battle of New York. That's entirely unnecessary. Why would the U.S. want a weekly reply to that?"

Chris, the poor fella, looks a bit twitted. His knees bounce a bit from under the desk. "So that's a no comment on current love affairs, Captain America?"

 _Damn it, Tony._  Steve thinks loudly for letting himself waltz into this press trap _. You knew this would happen, didn't you?_  He can almost picture Stark's smug mug now, sitting beside Miss Potts and talking her ear off about Steve's stellar lack of TV personality.

Once more, there's a little too much of a pause. Chris moves on quickly. "You mentioned before about making some very bold statements about  _The Avengers_  position during the Battle of New York, and speaking of that, I'm just glad that you all were there—completely out of nowhere,  _pow,_  right next to Tony Stark himself! Could you tell the audience a bit more about what it's liking working so close to the only publicly identified 'Super Hero'? Have you yourself ever considered unmasking for the public, Captain?"

Steve can feel the sweat sweeping down his back. His eyes flicker to the teleprompter…but beyond a few generalized S.H.I.E.L.D. allowances, he's dead in the water. Of course the answer is an immediate _no_ —both from S.H.I.E.L.D. and Steve himself. Explicit details such as that aren't even bothered to be talked about. But to say it aloud is all on him.

"In regards to working with Mister Stark I'll only say that—that he certainly knows how to run a much smoother interview than I do," Steve flashes a wide grin—somewhere in the back a square, glowing screen is hoisted up to snap a picture. He forces himself not to blink through it. This gains a timely laugh from Chris and the rest of the crew. "As for publicly unmasking, I'm afraid that's simply out of the question for the time being."

"Are you certain, Captain?" Chris presses. "Not major reveal to the public?" A chuckle. "No sudden outburst of a private home address?"

Steve's teeth are set into a half patient smirk, but his mind's eyes flashes back to Tony's most recent meltdown over the last three months—where, after he carelessly stepped outside after a long, shut-in bout of what the presses were calling a " _shameless disregard of responsibly_ ", he was swarmed by the paparazzi that provoked and prodded him with microphones and a slew of questions so invasively personal that Steve thought they were enough to make a call girl blush.

_'Mister Stark—over here, Mister Stark—do you or do you not agree that the extraterrestrial invasion could happen again? Are you and the U.S. military commissioned for—''Tony—what did you see when you went through the black hole? Was it—" 'What would you say to the thousands upon thousands of families that have—"Are you now leader of these so-called 'Team' and what of your relationship to—'Your sudden absences have left the people of New York City in total desiccation—'Does your absence mean you are considering giving up being a super hero compared to the multitude of dehumanized forces that are apart of 'Aveng—' "Have you been working on a new suit—'Is the government aware of the regulations that the city is demanding to know about—'Mister Stark, are you aware that your lack of response is sparking fear and avoidance of a powerful international threat that is your company and your abilities?'_

The news played the reel for analysis for days on end. The twenty-five plus mob of bundled reporters and lackeys. Tony's dark, black eyes shifting down and up again to keep pace while walking steady away from them— a thin, 'Gee guys, you caught me' smile nailed to his lips. But then the group had circled in and blocked his car door. Then they kept getting closer. They wouldn't move. They weren't listening. It was becoming a full-on verbal attack. After a barbed fight to try and make it to his car Stark suddenly  _snapped_.

From nearly all angles that could possibly be recorded Tony was in an unfiltered view for the world to see. From what was played throughout the news, he had snatched up a mobile phone out of a pair of hands pushed far too close to his face and smashed it into a brick pillar, shattering the glass at the feet of the crowd mere seconds after he had threatened out his home address to any noisy reporters that thought Tony's sudden disappearance was anything  _close_  to a  _potential international threat._ Becoming a part of The Avengers had changed a lot of lives—but outside of their uniforms, there was an unprecedented amount of outrage for "Earth's Mighty Heroes" lack of response to the hurt, the dying after the  _Chitauri_ had fallen. The response that they were the problem. The response that they should reveal themselves. The response that they were dangerous, and libel to be held for every crime committed in America.

Steve forces his expression into one that didn't have to look at Tony's face for the rest of that very long evening. He wondered what Stark's expression was now that Chris had brought it up. Steve certainly never said a word. It wasn't his business. But even Steve sometimes wished he could explode just as fully at the unfairness around him.  _  
_  
He clears his throat, and tries not to make too big of an affront to the camera—mainly because it's a little intimating with how perfectly he's reflected back—all too big, fake smile and memories of other sound crews that actually walked about _real_  news, like the support of dying men and updates on British bombings.  __  
  
"I'm afraid, Chris, that's just out of my hands."

"Well—what would you say to your adoring fans? Next to Tony Stark it would appear we have quite a few flocks of girls lined right outside the studio as we speak."

Steve actually makes the motion to turn and look towards the stage door—as if he can  _feel_  the pressure of hundreds of strange women that wanted to break down the door and get their hands on him. He blushes a pale colour. Tony always got a kick out of fangirls. It made Steve want to jump out of his skin. "I'd, uh, I'd say that they should be grateful for the people they have around them." Steve begins. "I'd say that they should go on back and kiss their husbands and be thankful that they have someone to come home to. Because, um, well, not all of us do."

"Very honest words, Captain." Chris bobs his head along happy and Steve focuses on breathing strongly and keeping proper eye contact. The news anchor then turns back to face the camera with his full body. "All right folks, you've heard the Captain. It looks like we'll be right back with a few more questions soon after this quick sound bite—brought to you by  _The Daily Bu—"_

_Pause._

Beth taps on the remote to halt the interview for the fourth time. It's an old one. She's seen it nearly six times, but she can't help but always get suckered into these stupid kinds of things after 3 am passes and she gives up sleeping. She's surfed Netflix and had now reverted back to her saved shows for entertainment. She always changed the name of the interviews to something more normalized so that, say, if Ronda came snooping around (which wouldn't be above her. At all), it wouldn't be a massive assault of saved Captain America interviews or clips or Avengers promotion. For fun she changed it to obnoxious porn titles and giggled haplessly at the sheer idea…although, considering the market, she's sure by now an Avengers spoof adult movie probably has been made.

She stares at the frozen image of Captain America on her TV screen and rubs her hands against her face.  _What are you doing with your life, Ore?_   _Sure, you just want to thank him—you already sort've got your chance, but he'll probably never see it._  She glances half-heartedly towards the door and spots a flutter of fabric over the chair edged by it. She leans over the back of the couch to pull it close—warm, dark—she holds it closer to her eyes, trying to make out the designer…

…and once she has it close to her face, she realizes just how much it smells like Steve, something a-mixed with leather and fabric softener. She buries her nose into the collar, breathes in, and snuggles under it.

_Okay. Now you're officially pathetic._

She holds it across her lap and clicks the TV back to a live channel, trying to distract herself. Only five more hours to go until work.

* * *

A light knock on the door. The clock tells her it's nearly 4 am. Two hours since Steve's left.

She's suddenly alert—a tap to the pause button with stills the interview about Johnny Depp, and she pads to the door. A peek through the keyhole—a tall, blue-eyed guy still at her stoop. "Steve?"

"Pardon," he calls, his voice only slightly raised. "I forgot my jacket."

She slightly opens the door. "You came all the way back here for… your jacket?"

He gives a trademark half shrug to hide his shivering. "It's darn cold. I didn't realise it was so cold until I sat down on the train. Start losin' bodyheat quick that way, I guess." He gives sniff and grins blearily. "I guess I'm still under the weather."

Beth's mouth folds open and then closes, befuddled. "…I can't tell if that's sweet…or really OCD." She pauses. "Or… adorable… I think both is fine."

"OCD?"

She's on her tiptoes so she can reach out two fingers to grab at his collar. She really doesn't want to lean more of her body out the door than she has to. "Uh—let's not worry about it right now."

Steve's quickly back through the door, face painted bright red. It almost looks like he sprinted all the way back to her apartment. Beth quickly runs the soft palm of her hand along his arms, trying to warm him up. "You could've called. I would've gotten a cab to get you, or something, Steve."

He quickly brings both of his arms around to hold her waist—and  _nope_ , suddenly there is absolutely no carpet between her toes, as he lifts her up like she's a bag of cotton balls. He's totally not using her as an absorbent for all the  _amazing_ amount of warmth she's collected, sitting still in one cozy spot for nearly three hours. The fine stubble to his cheek tickles her, but she only hugs him tighter. "Hmm—well,  _if you put it that way_ , I do like surprises, Soldier Steve."

His laugh is low pitches to the inside of her ears. "I was worried I'd be waking you, but then I figured—well—" He turns easily turns with a surreal amount of grace on the heel of his foot to give Beth a view of a glowing TV screen. Beth squirms a bit as if she's somehow going to rewind time and pretend like she wasn't binge watching Johnny Depp. Steve can feel her actively trying to get away, and he gently tightens his hold. "No way missy, I've caught you red-handed!"

"It's not as obsessive as you think! I promise I only liked Depp in  _Edward Scissor- Hands!_ "

He slowly lowers her to the floor, but keeps one hand to her hip. "Scissor-what?"

Her fingers come together in the form of a pair of scissors. "You know—quirky, directed Tim Burton-y stuff?  _Nightmare Before Christmas_?"

"Nightmare before Christmas?" Steve repeats. "That's awful. Why would that be a movie?"

"Wait, wait," Beth plops down onto her sofa gives the soldier a 'come hither' stare. "You're kidding. You've never seen a Tim Burton film?"

Glad to be back where he feels like he can breathe, Steve challenges her easily. "With titles like that I don't think I'd ever want to. He can keep his scissors in his hands and his nightmares."

At the empty potion of seat Steve picks out the colours of the aforementioned jacket. He picks it up gingerly, a slight upturn of his lips that hint at how he's very clearly noticed it's changed position from over a chair to suddenly over the couch. "Were you cuddling with this?"

"No," Beth says instantly, pointedly keeping her nose towards the TV. "That's—that's  _silly_. Sit down."

He stifles a chuckle and does, and Beth quickly leans into his side, careful to double check that he isn't pretending that her laying there doesn't hurt. "What's your favourite movie?"

He frowns for a moment. "It's a bit of'va classic, but it's called  _The Shop Around The Corner_.'"

"Huh. I've never heard of it. What's it about?"

He thumbs at his nose self-consciously about actually confessing to liking what Bucky would heckle him for. "It's alright. It's a love affair about two people are penpals and are madly in love with each other. The only problem is that neither of 'em know what the other one looks like in real life, and that they have no idea that their co-worker that they can't stand is actually the penpal they adore."  
 _  
_"Oh! That sounds just like _You've_   _Got Mail_!"

"Eh?"

"It's pretty old. From the 80's. It's got Tom Hanks?"

"Old, huh? You mean James Stewart?"

"No, no—Hanks. And Meg Ryan. She's in everything chick flick related."

 _"Oh,"_  Steve stretches beside her playfully. "You mean Margaret Sullavan?"

Beth bats at him gently with her hand that he collects to hold between his. "You weren't kidding with your enjoyment of the 40's. What classy names."

"Classy," Steve smiles. He likes that's what she thinks sums it up to. Classy. "So what were you watching just before Mister Depp?"

"Um," Beth rests her head on his shoulder. The words  _Captain America_  are stuck in her throat. She wants to tell him…but…. "I can't even remember."

"Yeah," Steve agrees. "It all looks the same sometimes. It certainly wakes you up when it's in black and white, though. Those are never on. I've looked."

He can feel her giggle rattle through him. "Sorry. It's just been so long since I've watched a black and white movie. I'm thinking like  _Wizard of Oz_  old."

He chuckles softly beside her and uses one arm to hold her against him. They're quiet for a bit, besides the peerless tinged of snowflakes pattering the window. Steve knows he can only hear that, but he wishes for a moment that he could show Beth what it sounds like—the quiet, tiny things that no one ever knows.

"You know I didn't come back for my jacket." Steve declares awkwardly, lips faintly touching the top of her head.

Beth closes her eyes to appreciate the sentiment. "I had a feeling."

Quiet again. Beth slowly turns Steve's hand over to measure how big it is compared to hers, how tiny she feels compared to him. "Do you ever feel small, Steve?"

He gradually opens and closes his fingers, resting in the palm of her hand. "Sometimes. It never…really leaves me all the way."

"How?" She whispers. "How can someone as brave as you feel so small?"

"One day," he squeezes her hand tightly. "One day I promise I'll show you what I mean."

"I'd like that," she says simply, and goes back to resting against him.

The television is muted, dim—but for once Steve isn't bothered by it. She's warm, pressed against his side. He isn't tired still—he can only imagine how much energy he has after his impromptu nap. But it's nice sitting here in the still. Suddenly, Beth's hand moves for the remote. The programme has changed into some new interview.

"Oh—"The soft skin of her hand rests itself over the top of his. "Do you mind if we just watch this for a sec? They replay them all the time, when it's really late like this. It's just…" the gentle glow from the box sprinkles across her face to highlight the pale tautness of her eyes. She trails off.

The volume is pushed up—and for a moment Steve doesn't recognise the mask, or the pattern, or the voice. It's just someone being interviewed. And then it clicks. It's  _him._  The wind feels knocked out of him. It's a good thing he's already sitting down. He glances at Beth nervously, but she's already watching away. __  
  
"Do you do this?"

Her hand pulls back into the folds of the sapphire fur. "What do you mean?"

"Listen to—"  _His voice, Captain Amer—my voice?—_  "The television? At night? Helps you sleep?"

Her eyes drop lowly. "Yeah." She sounds almost guilty. "I know I'm supposed to be an adult by now, but please don't make fun."

"I would never do that. I just was curious because I've done that as well. Not with the television so much as records."

"Wow,  _records._  You are totally a hipster."

"Hipster." Steve tastes the word again between his teeth, and it just doesn't feel right. "Hey—about that word…I dunno. I feel like it's not what it used to mean. What you think it is." Steve blinks to try and fix his terrible phrasing. "I mean."

She stares at him for a heartbeat, and then suddenly bursts out into laughter. "Oh God—don't turn into Ronda and quote  _The Princess Bride_  at me!"

"What's a princess bride?" Steve asks, taken back by her reaction. "Like, that, uh, terrible crash with—um—Princess Diana?"

"What are you  _talking_  about?"

"What about  _you_ talking about?"

"Ha," she chuckles. "Sorry! It's just that I thought you overheard Ronda making fun of me—she always makes fun of my hair. It's like the princess's in the movie. And well. I mean." She blushes. "With you being blonde and blue eyed, you'd make a pretty perfect Westley. Oh  _god._  Okay, okay, just do me a favour: if Ronda _ever_  asks you to say 'As you wish'  _don't do it._  Please. For me."

Steve forces a laugh to keep himself from sweating. "'As you wish'?"

"I'm taking the power away from her before she even tries it."

"Well, what does that even mean?"

"It's like. It's like a secret that you're telling someone special. In the movie, I always thought it meant: "I love you", but it could be a myriad of things, I guess. Maybe it means "you're pretty damn bossy, but you're also hot, so I'm okay with it"."

Another laugh. "And why does the character say it?"

"Because Westley has to hide that it's him, because…like…it's complicated. It's just like…their secret message." Beth frazzles. "I don't know! It's cheesy, and that movie is sounding more stupid the more we talk about it. Ugh." A shake of her head and soon her nervous smile lightens. "But really, there's no way, you, Soldier Steve, needs a metaphorical night light."

Steve's smile falls. "I get these…nightmares sometimes." He explains, trying not to look at her. It's just easier that way. "I get…confused, I guess is the word. Between that split section where you're waking up but you're not quite there yet and…it's like I have to have something to focus on so I know where I am." He swallows hard and turns to gauge her reaction. "Does that make any sense at all?"

She nods, quickly and rapidly, and her blue eyes look very concerned. "You make perfect sense, Steve." She quietly gives a small sigh. "Um. There's more to the TV than just the light…I…I kind've didn't tell you the whole truth about what I was watching before." She takes his hand again in hers. "I was watching…okay—please _, please_  don't laugh—an Avengers interview."

"Really?" Steve tries to carefully plan his words. "Which one?"

Beth points at the screen, glancing there shyly before easing back onto the couch as if wracked with shame. Steve can feel her paper shield burning a hole inside the pocket of his jeans.

He can hear her swallow. "He saved my life, you know. Captain America. I mean, they all did, in a way, but…it's hard to tell people without this fear that they'll hate you, or praise you. The more I watch about what the world thinks of people with incredible gifts…the more fear seems to spread."

Steve's mouth goes dry.  _She remembers. Of course, of course she'd remember. God, and her just staring at me through the remains…_

"I feel like I should do more. I should thank them. I should…thank… _him."  
_  
 _If only Doctor Banner could hear you say that_ , Steve thinks grimly.

A pause, where Beth focuses hard on the screen. She bites her lip and Steve actively pushes kissing her away. He knows she's working it out inside of her head, whatever it is she wants to say. "I want to thank him. In person. I think that would be good for me."

Steve in glad they're in the dark. He isn't sure what his face looks like. Discomfort? Pain? Relief? It's all up in the air. He forces his best steady voice, but his heart is racing. "And how would you do that?"

A shake of her head. "I'd give him money if I weren't so broke." A tiny, broken laugh. "Like he'd even need that…or want that. Maybe a hug? I'd probably just start bawling. It'd be…super embarrassing."

Steve shutters a breath. "I don't think he'd want any of that stuff."

Her blue eyes look fragile and round. "You don't think?"

"I mean…" Steve tries edge off the sheer shock and panic flooding through him. "It's about what makes you feel right, though."

Beth mimics Steve's deep breath. "I'm going to meet him. I need to thank him. I think that'll be something positive I can wrap up for myself—" her eyes slowly look Steve over. "Hey…you okay?"

"Me?" Steve quips anxiously. "Yeah—sure. Just listening, is all."

"Just—this look on your face. Say—that famous friend….doesn't happen to be an Avenger that could hook me up?"

"S-sorry." Steve says, eyes holding back his fear. His mouth turns up at the corners, because despite the weight of Fury and his team and the country and Bucky and a paper shield in his pocket, he can't not beam at her. "Not that I'm aware of."

"Ha!" She throws back her head and laughs joyfully. "You're so cute when you stutter."

Suddenly Beth turns so that she's facing him—and then she pounces gently—her entire weight into his lap. She wraps her arms around his neck and pecks his cheek. "Thank you for coming back."

He smiles. She can't help but notice it's delayed a bit. His eyes widen slightly when she gives a small sniff close to his jaw. "Beth?"

"Sorry. Just checking to see if you had drank again while you were out. Just curious. I wouldn't have judged if you did. With…with your friend and all."

He chuckles—and the muscles of his stomach compact against her legs. She tries not to think about his body so close. "I'm probably about…80 percent sober by now."

Her eyes rise jestingly. "80  _percent?"_

He grins sheepishly, trying to shove away the heady rush of adrenaline over lying more to Beth, and having to meet her suited up. "Okay. 75."

She giggles and gently presses a kiss into the shell of his ear. When she comes back to look at his face, he manages a wink at her. "You're hilarious, Steve Rogers. Very funny."

He collects her hair with one hand to run its smooth layers through his fingers—almost like silk water. He leans in slowly to give her a kiss when she suddenly  _yawns_  right in his face—a hand flies to her mouth and her cheeks glow pink. "Oh my god—that didn't happen. No. Noo." She leans down into his chest to hide, but keeps a free hand to cover his lips. " Shhh. Shhhh. I'm invisible. I don't exist."

Steve's laughter rumbles and shakes her frame. "You're a doll, I hope you know." Once again, as if she's made of air, he quickly scoots her off of his lap and leads her away from the couch. "I can't stand the idea of you stayin' awake further just for my sake."

For once she doesn't object to where she's being taken. She's just happy to hold Steve's hand.

* * *

"You're surprisingly soft." Beth murmurs in the darkness of her bedroom. Steve keeps his arms locked around her, holding her close. He's never felt so warm in his entire life.

"I sweat a lot. Does that help?"

A giggle in the dark. Steve feels her flush over the apples of her cheeks, the nape of her neck. "You always know just what to say."

"You're kidding, right?"

* * *

He forces himself to break away from her when his own eyes start to feel heavy. His own breathing is getting slower. He can't fall asleep. He thinks about the feather in his hair from this morning and he can't imagine what he could do to Beth's own bed. Or worse. To Beth. But he can't even risk it. Slowly, he's barely touching his feet to the floor when—

"Please stay." She whispers. They're faint. It's barely as if the two words were never spoken at all.

Steve turns back. Her eyes are closed. She doesn't even look conscious enough to breathe.

Steve sighs, but only barely. "Beth—I thought you were already sleep. I—"

"It's jus' that…I have to go to work t'morrow—and it's s'already so late." Her voice gets irresistibly endearing, soft and fluttering to remain clear. "If you leave, I just know I won't fall asleep." She sloppily moves an arm to reach for him, her eyes still closed. "I'm not asking for—for sex. I jus' need you."

…And it might just kill Steve to leave now. He takes in the room for options. "Maybe more space, then, if I do stay?" He thinks about the broken pillows. He thinks about the floor, or the couch. "I tend to move in my sleep. When I'm not, uh."

"High?" She mutters tactlessly through her frightful shock of hair.

He cringes. "Yeah. That sounds about right."

"So do I."

He paces slightly, jaw steeled. "It's just, Beth, doll, I'm afraid…'fraid I may hurt you."

Steve can hear her spine creaking a bit as she sits up, extremely unbalanced. A hand points to the wall behind him. To a closet. "So could I."

"Excuse me?" Steve asks quietly. He's almost positive he's heard her wrong. He turns politely and check inside of where she's pointing. A short step inside and he's suddenly ankle deep in something soft and equally prickly. Feathers. Downy. Empty, white sheets.

He turns to look back at her, but she's practically fallen sleep sitting up—slumped against the back of her headboard.  _Son'ov'a'gun._  Steve thinks.

"All right." Steve admits slowly. He crawls back across her sheets, slides an arm under her warm, relaxed body and pulls her against his chest. He takes a few deep breaths and forces himself to memorize the effect of another person against him, the electric, sincere, pleasant rise and fall of another chest. He can't lose it tonight.  _It's safe. It's safe._  He tells himself, for the first time.  _You have to give this up. You have to surrender, Rogers. Another person is at stake._

She shifts strongly, maybe even already dreaming, and accidentally pushes an arm up so that she's a bit of a tangled mess between sheets and pillows and Steve's arms. Steve tries to hold her still. To calm her down like the times she's done the same for him. Slowly he presses kisses against her neck, along her shoulders. Seems to help. He carefully curls her hair away from her mouth and the rest of her face.

"You have no idea the kind of man you're making surrender to you, sweet heart." He keeps his voice so low that there is no way she'd possibly hear him speak. A mere murmur of his lips to her skin. "But I know a few villains that would be jealous right about now." He appreciates the near silence to the moxie of his own humor. "But…as you wish."

He holds her through the night just like that. He's always waited for the sunrise, for New York to dawn open again through the blinds and cast a glare against the décor-clocks, and for a single still moment Steve could believe he was still home. But he never noticed the curve of traffic shifting through the streets—the surreal hum of indifferent headlights as they drifted across the walls and ceilings. Her window still wasn't closed properly—but tangle of her soft hair was along his hands, cupping the back of her head under his neck. He wouldn't dare move to break holding her so close, so silent and peaceful. He stopped counting the minutes that things happened, so far away and out of reach and beyond his control. Bucky's disappeared. Tony, Nat, Logan...forgotten.

She breathes in deeply, snuggled into his chest, and sighs.

This. Whatever it was between them. He prayed that it'd never end. He didn't care if maybe that was playin' at pretend for things continuing on despite the cost, but they should've marked him as a mule the day he was born. He's too stubborn to discern otherwise. Steve could live in a dream like nobody's business.

* * *

Steve's cellphone rings urgently from the pocket of his jacket sprawled alongside the couch.

It rings once. Twice. Two missed calls.

One new message.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN#3: I'm silently dying because I most likely won't be seeing our beloved Cap in his new motion picture all while I'm hearing it's SO GOOODD. AHHHHHHH. Be gentle to your humble fan-ficker as she might be clueless to the new things canon to the Marvel universe after these next few days—but know that, regardless of what happens, I'm still making this my spin on The Winter Soldier, as well as Iron Man 3, ect. Much appreciation and if you can, please do review. It's nice to know my hours upon hours of writing this novel earns a few words! C:
> 
> And, once again, I'm sorry for my absence. I'm trying guys. I really am.


	36. Missing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I saw The Winter Soldier, and I may have cried over how gorgeous it was.
> 
> Okay. I did. I cried lots.
> 
> Talk about not just an amazing development for our Cap, but a kick-ass movie over all. Please, if you haven't, gooooo see it. I admit that I chuckled over [spoiler], [spoiler], [spoiler] and Natasha just [spoiler]!
> 
> Now, I'll be real with you guys. The Winter Soldier was brilliant, funny, calculating, and incredible. I can't promise you the thunder of TWS, but I can promise you my very best when it comes to my version of The Winter Soldier. It was such a thrilling story that I'm excited to share another idea of it.
> 
> Isn't any good story worth telling...worth telling twice? With changes and other plots and characters...like the other Avengers participating. I'm moving ahead with my original schemes with some added touches from the film, o'course. Speaking of which, if I am ever hitting a point of a NON-OBVIOUS spoiler for Captain America: The Winter Solider, I WILL mark it. Please don't worry about that.
> 
> This is where the story picks up much needed speed. I hope to take you guys to some interesting exploration of characters...

Chapter 37: Missing

 

* * *

"Steve."

His eyes open instantly.

The ceiling fan in Beth's room is off, but the air is cool against the rapid flush of awakening to his cheeks. The entire room is drenched in night, except for that same forgotten window that casts a hue of dark blue over his body. The passing traffic flicker the walls like ocean waves, and the mattress is so soft that it feels like it could pass as another body—another body buried, piled in the dirt with the rotting of other men, with arms that are encasing him, pulling the soldier under…down…down… _No_ , he forces himself to look up.

He isn't drowning. He isn't alone.

He breathes in.

He sighs slowly and silently out of his mouth to clear the sleep from his head. It feels like he's barely closed his eyes, merely felt the presence of Beth dreaming against him, and yet the nightmares…somehow the nightmares find him.

_"Rogers."_

He blinks—hard. Blue eyes stare, tracking the ceiling fan's blades, which are still and white and almost like pale fingers that are curving out along the ceiling; a stolid surface that convinces the soldier that he's not bobbing, not  _moving_ , and counts slowly backwards from ten. He flexes his fingers into the mattress, pretending to stretch. A turn of the left side of his face back into the pillow, but his eyes do not close. A gleam of sweat makes its way down his brow.

Usually the ghosts aren't so…so loud.

He swallows loudly and fully turns over, shaking the bed.

It's then he realises that Beth is no longer close to him. He can feel the small, loping indent of where she had laid. The clammy skin along Steve's waist and arms can feel the traced heat of her body, like burn coils echoing that something is missing. Someone is gone.

Alarmed, he shifts agilely on his palms to hold himself up to investigate the dark. He find that she's simply moved away from him in her sleep. Steve can contently see the rise and fall of her side, turned equally away from the blue light and away from the sudden sprawling of a nervous super soldier.

He slowly lowers himself down until his chin touches the sheets again, muffing his heavy breathing like a muzzle. He's grateful for it. He sinks down, bringing his hands to his ears; He's staring in the white of the pillow. If he can't hear it, if he can't see it, it isn't real.

_They're not real._

The slightest press of a hand touches the small of his back, and every inch of hair on Steve's body stands on end. His heart clamors against his ribs—and he heaves off the mattress in a single coiled pushed —only to be pushed down,  _hard._ He goes to kick—instantly aware of the nightstand's proximity to his hands and how a single stroke could knock a man's lights out for at  _least_  a good ten minutes, but a strong hand twists and forces the soldier onto his back. A compact weight from above lands onto his chest and pushes the air out of his lungs for a single heart-beat of a second—he goes to breathe in, to tell Beth to run—but two hands clamp over his mouth, the sharp tip of delicately managed fingernails threatening to dig into his jaw.

The blue snow dots the dim, glistening shoulder-length auburn hair hypnotically, as if sniper targets from the outside are relentlessly aiming for her mind. Steve's eyes widen as he finds himself being straddled by Black Widow herself. She slowly removes one hand towards something at her side, and for an instant, Steve swears she has a gun. He smoothly pulls his knee up to force herself to slide against his chest—but the glint of her emerald eyes seal him into place.

An unbelievably bright light—Steve's eyes water at he makes out the words on a screen.

[She's a heavy sleeper.]

Two full lips smirk at him. Natasha's thin brows rise and fall at Steve's. This close, Steve can smell the scent of pure black coffee on her breath. Steve blinks and slowly inches forward so that he can make sure she can feel the suppressed, fuming, near-heart-attack earning lash on the edge of his lips, but the closer he edges the tighter her hand gets.

_'Natasha, what are you doing here?_ ' His lips move against her hand.

Another gentle pad of thumb to a glass screen. [You didn't have your cellphone on you.]

'So that gives you all means to break into an innocent's apartment?'

[Fury issued the command to leave over twenty minutes ago to you without a response, so it was rather I come to get you, or another of Fury's agents. I figure you wanted a more delicate touch.]

This time, Steve makes sure she can feel his teeth. 'Delicate?' Blond brows furrow harshly as they lock eyes, both of them pinned.

[Tell Beth to get better locks. It was pathetic how easy it was to get in here.]

The spy's knees are starting to slide along the loose mattress to dig into both his sides. As if sensing this, the spy fluidly unfurls herself from the Captain and eases back onto the carpet. She gives Steve a final glance before she's out of the room. A true phantom along the floor.

* * *

She's leaning along the arm chair near Beth's door. His jacket is draped over one arm. Her fingers are furiously picking through his mobile.

Steve makes sure to close the bedroom door before he dares to even whisper. He crosses his hands over his chest, feeling entirely naked before the spy without even a means of appearing prepared. He isn't. His chest sinks with how useless he feels, bare-footed in the living room decorated in garish amounts of happy, festive things.

There's really only one question to ask.

"How long?"

She doesn't look up from his phone. "If we leave now? With these traffic reports, we'll be at S.H.E.I.L.D's headquarters without much trouble. Fury won't question it."

Steve looks around aimlessly. He isn't sure what he's looking for, really. A clear of his throat. "I don't have my gear."

"Packed." Natasha's voice is low and precise. She's entirely unshaken to second that she's sat on Steve's chest, less than an arm's length away from a sleeping woman. Steve doesn't know how she can move so effortlessly from situation to station. It's as she was born without the ability to feel uncomfortable. The soldier is nearly jealous of such a feat. "It has been packed days." Her brows knit and her lips purse. "It's the new suit, just so you know."

The grey existentialist monster in his closet. What else would it be?

Steve faces her stare head on. "I know. Fury told me that much."

"I recall Fury also saying that you should keep an eye on your cell for the call."

Steve nods. "I know. It's why I came all the way back from my apartment. I knew I'd forgotten it."

"Oh. That's why you came back, is it?" Her voice drips with quiet amusement.

He shifts his weight from foot to foot. "I'm not planning on letting Beth know anything, Natasha."

A flicker of emerald eyes zero in on his face. "Good. Neither do I."

Steve widens his shoulders alertly, continuing the briefing. "Flight?"

"Two tickets. Right here." She motions to her side once more. Steve's eyes take in the faint handle of a gun. "Passports—although, anything forgotten will be easily given again to us."

"I know the drill." Steve says firmly.

A pause.

"So then why aren't we moving?" She moves to hand the soldier back his jacket. "Are you forgetting anything else here that could compromise your identity?"

"I'm not sure. I had it under control before you decided to illegally break in and land yourself a foot away from Beth." He scowls. "On top of me."

Her red hair moves to drizzle down her shoulders as she passively turns off his phone. "It was urgent. I had to make a call so that you and Beth weren't discovered. It worked."

Steve breathes in through his nose and holds his jacket between tightened fingers.

"Natasha, don't do that again," he tells her steadily. There is a sudden spark behind the hardness of the spy's stare.

"What?" Her voice stays low, but there's a purring, dark edge to it. Like a panther contemplating a strike. "Did you think I'd get caught?"

"No," Steve answers back sternly. He leans in further. "For bringing a gun near Beth."

Her gaze holds grippingly to Steve's until she finally blinks. The instant that blink is over she's staring into the darkness of the hallway. "The only thing she needs to fear, for her own protection, are these locks."

"These buildings are old. I remember them." Steve defends absently, trying not to fume over Natasha's lack of cooperation. He glances around again. The air is thin and cold. His fingers are restless. He places one hand into a jean pocket to bring the paper headline of Bucky's obituary under his nails—the clarity of his own personal mission settling in.

"Steve." Natasha motions for the soldier to open his hand, and she deposits his phone. "We have to leave."

It's then Steve realises what his body is calling for. "My shield?"

"In the suitcase." A tiny jingle of keys from her direction.

It crashes into the soldier again, just how off caught he feels. Just how careless he was. Just how much he had shoved everything about the reality of his life within days of avoiding it all.

"Thanks."

"It is not a problem." The silhouette of Natasha's shoulder blades catch in the moonlight. "Are you ready?"

"Natasha," Steve's blue eyes grim in the twilight as he looks at her, bare and unmoving. "What should I tell her?"

Her answer is so quick it's almost insulting to Steve's ears. "Nothing."

_"Nothing?"_

"Steve, on an entirely rational level, what could you possibly say to her now that would make this any easier?" The spy asks smoothly. "From what I've seen of her reactions, the stress would kill her."

"I can't do that to her, Natasha."

The green inside of her dark pupils are impervious. Steve only wishes he could get inside of that mind and understand what she's thinking—what she's seen in Beth during his blackout. Enough to where Beth's afraid of her. "She couldn't handle it."

Steve takes in the living room as if understanding for the first time how everything is made of plastic, and glass and fragile moving gears. He imagines what it would be like to wake her up now and confess. Imagines her understanding what it is he has to do, why he can't stay.

At the door, he can still smell her scent from the mingling of a few hours before—where she had nearly cried over his newest wound. A wound that he could have avoided if he had just used more control…had less Fury.

At the door, he can so easily see shadowy men busting in the wood, blow by blow. Splinters of old wooden doors crushing inwards from the steel of their boots—fire in their eyes and machine guns through the windows—and the entire building going up in sudden, suffocating flames. All because he let her in—and she can't ever escape unscathed. He can't always be around to make sure she's safe…

"We have two minutes," Natasha clarifies into the silence.

He forces himself to push it all away.

"I have to—I have to say  _something."_ Steve begins. __  
  
"You can call." Natasha suggests negligibly. "After we've landed."

"And when will that be?"

"By the end of this evening. Even S.H.E.I.L.D can't travel half the world without stopping for fuel."

"Too long," Steve decides, making his way back across the living room.

For a moment, Natasha's eyes widen in sudden, unpredicted fear that Rogers i _s actually going_   _to_ —but then he carefully turns about the kitchen, narrowly knocking all of Beth's stacked magazines to the floor. "Not for this."

Her lips part slightly in a jagged exhale. "You can text."

"Not my style." She barely sees a hand motioning through the hall. "It's not personal enough."

"Personal enough?" She curls her lips elegantly. She moves hurriedly, not a sound across the floor as she leans around the corner to spy at what the soldier is doing. "Don't tell me you're doing what I  _think_  you're doing."

Steve halts slightly to glance at her expectantly from the corner of his eyes. "You push and push for me to get out of Tony's mansion, take  _my_  motorcycle, and you give me grief when I try to keep my promises." He's leaning over the table with a pencil rolling between anxious fingers. "Sheesh."

Her lips pull tightly into a smirk at the messed up slick of his hair, sticking up and around his forehead, his tongue tapping at his teeth as he thinks. She then turns back to start up the car.

"You've got one minute, Rogers."

* * *

Seated in the passenger seat, Steve can't bring himself to look away from Beth's apartment. He feels like he's seen it more times than he's even seen his own.

Now he feels like he won't be seeing it for a very long time.

"You're a real romantic, Steve." Natasha observes. Her eyes take in Steve's solemn reaction and then return to the empty, salient street. "I bet you signed it and everything."

The car lurches forward from the blockage of the snow sticking to its dampened black paint, blending it in discreetly with the frozen cement under the tread of its own tires.

"In a way." Steve confirms closely.

He keeps his eyes to her apartment building until he can't see it anymore. He pulls out his cellphone again to turn it back on. Two missed calls. One from Natasha. One from Fury. One new message.

Steve doesn't even need to guess which of the two actually bothered to leave a message.

He takes a breath and slowly brings the receiver to his ear.

* * *

Seven in the morning comes too quickly. Or at least her phone tells her it's come too quickly.

The coldness that has taken over her room is sharp, even as she's cocooned in blankets, and it stings at her toes. She swears that the sun rises just get under the rim of her closed eyes. She opens up both arms to stretch—feeling more hung over than she's ever had when she actually drank—and groans exaggeratedly.

She turns, fingers pulling the bangs out of her face. "—And you actually  _like_  the morning?"

She collapses back onto the mattress and rolls back into the sheltered warmth.

Silence.

She keeps perfectly motionless against the pillow and holds her breath.

She can't hear anyone else breathing.

_No,_ is all she thinks.

A hand grips at her hair to rip it back behind her ears as she reaches out timidly, not wanting to feel the empty, cool space from the adjacent pillow that's waiting for her. Her heart starts to tremble. "Steve?"

Long, pale fingers curl around empty sheets. She keeps her face pressed into the pillow. Her voice is muffled. "Steve…?"

_No, no, no, no, no._  Another pat up along the pillow. Down. She stretches her arm as far as she can possibly reach before she gives up the fight and faces the sprawling, no man's land of her bedroom.

She holds herself together and practices swallow breathing before she curls back up and moves over to the side of the bed that once held a sleeping soldier that promised he wouldn't leave. She loops an arm under the pillow and drags it to her face to catch what lingering smell that could be left of her soldier—but there's nothing there. She can only guess it's been too long. She can't allow herself to calculate what time it was that he decided to leave...but a fresh wave of hurt drains from the inside of her chest, and she decides to not want to know.

With a defeated sigh, she heaves herself upright to reach for her phone, hoping against hope that maybe he's left a message. Something. Anything.

A sudden crumpling sound of rattling paper makes her jump as she moves the sheets from around her legs. She stops. Turns. Gently peels back a sheet to find what looks to be a battered newspaper article. She touches faintly at its bent edges, smoothing it out with her fingers as she holds it closer in the crisp, chilling, morning light.

_What…is this?_

She carefully opens it up and tries to unwrinkle its surface on the corner of her nightstand. It's old, that's for sure. She carefully runs a finger along the faded ink to feel the raised dots. There's a square black and white picture of a young man, smiling, centered to the side as a highlight—but she has no idea who he is.

She tries to curiously link something about him to her memory.

He's brunette. He has dark eyes. He's _…in uniform?_

She traces her eyes through every line for a name, and nearly misses it.

His name is James Buchanan Barnes. And he's been dead for over 70 years.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN:Thank you so very much for reading as usual. And hey, please tell me what you guys thought of TWS!
> 
> I'm going to try to keep my chapters shorter..if I can help it. What do you guys think?
> 
> And don't worry, if I'm ever hitting a note of MAJOR spoilers for the movie, I'm going to mark it crazy. We've cool like that, ya dig?


	37. Secrets and Lies

Chapter 38: Secrets and Lies

* * *

Beth – Please read this

I am sorry. I don't have a lot of time to explain why I'm suddenly gone. Even as I'm writing… I know this letter isn't going to make a lot of sense. Hell, if I had a whole year to write out this letter to you I doubt I'd get any further than I am right now.

She knows the word 'year' is underlined.

She could trace, with her eyes closed, the rise and sudden fall of his handwriting. It's hurried and sloppy. Every sentence is a slightly-slanted-to–the-right jumble of incomplete thoughts and stinted cursive. There are misspellings and run on sentences. She's practically memorized the entire letter during on the subway to the cafe.

I'm not much of a writer. But I couldn't wait as long as I'm being told that I have to.

From across the table in the break room, Beth knows exactly the point where Ronda's stopped reading. Her light green eyes jump to make sure Beth's still with her. Still seeing this. Still  _believing_  this.

_"God,_ " Ronda drawls. "He's dramatic."

Ronda shifts in her seat, one hand touching at her hair, which is tied up close to the nape of her neck in complicated, over stressed, braids. She's dyed it black. Her eyebrows are as well, and they highlight the disbelief across her face and brings to Beth's attention that her nose lacks the tiny pinch of a thin ring.

Her bright red blouse is covered in tiny tingly bells that form a Christmas bow. It's more of an eyesore against the black ties of her apron that criss-cross, but Beth only assumes that Max finally got the best of her and she's committed to company policy. Probably with the threat of being let go.

Seeing Ronda looking so pedestrian makes Beth's chest ache more. Like it's one more detail that she just failed to notice in time.

Ronda drops her eye contact and goes back to the letter that's made Beth feels like a stranger inside of her own apartment. She had found it earlier that morning on top of Ronda's magazine piles, covering the face of Tony Stark—but not much else. His jacket was gone. His socks, even his shoes have completely disappeared. His honest blue eyes. His warmth. His smell entirely evaporated from her life.

It's almost as if Steve didn't want to found. Didn't want to leave a single ounce of his presence in her house.

It tugs at her chest. Crushes in and out from her lungs in ebbs and flows, a question of why.

_Why?_

Was he ashamed of her? With everything he's confessed, does he not trust her—even with just a single detail of where he is? Her head throbs bitterly.  _Does he think I'm not strong enough?_  She has to bite her lip hard to not shudder a sob.  _God, after all he's seen. He probably thinks I'm just a broken mess._

There's no new message on her cellphone from Steve. There's no missed call. There's no text.

The letter is all she has. Well, that and…

She gently reaches inside of her apron's pocket to touch at the torn, frayed, black and white smile of a man named James. Another paper stranger inside of her life that she doesn't know what to do with, but she read his entire obituary as well, for anything, anything at  _all_  close to understanding why Steve's suddenly…

She keeps both papers close to her all throughout her shift. She couldn't bear to leave them in her locker.

It's the only thing that keeps her body from going entirely numb.

_Salto Della Fede_  is not numb. It's very much alive. The wooden booths are already crowded with the warm mutterings of mingling mouths all whispering at once. To Beth, it's all a low-muted buzzing that used to make her feel relativity at ease when coming into work.

Now she just feels trapped. All over again, as if were months ago, where her hand shook so badly she'd have to awkwardly take a customer's cup and refill in in the back over the sink. She wants only Ronda, but she's somehow clocked in and her name-tag is waxy and new and pinned to her chest. But she just knows that people are staring at her, that it's glaringly obvious how she's bleeding under the knotted ties of her black apron. She smiles at regulars, lists of today's specialties, makes comments about the chilly weather, and keeps blinking to stop herself from tearing up.

It comes in ebbs of painful abandonment, flows of confusion, and entirely drowning in desperation for an answer not jotted down at the last second.

Please understand that I didn't want to leave you, but what I am doing isn't about what I want anymore. I'm being called in again for my team. My cellphone went off late last night. In way, I'm grateful that it didn't wake you. I stole too much of your night as it is and I've already been booked a flight out to—I. I'm being sent out with Natasha—but I can't tell you the rest. Partially because I'm bound due to regulations and for your safety, and, frankly, the rest because I'm being rushed as it is.

_Water,_  she reminds herself. She slides her hand along the table to touch her glass and pulls it closer to her.

She's so thirsty. It's as if all fluids in her skin have dried up and escaped through her mouth from how many times she's forced herself to breathe deeply, made stalling trips to the bathroom to brush back her hair because it's just a disaster and it keeps sticking to the sweat on her forehead. She vaguely thinks that maybe she's caught whatever Steve had.

She barely touches the glass to her lips when the ice rushes up to her face very quickly. From behind the letter, Ronda faintly snickers at her. It's apparently empty. Of course. She gets up with a frustrated glare at the door for the café's sink.

Her hand reaches blindly along the sink for a new cup. A finger runs along the smooth loop of a mug. She pushes lightly on the tap. She isn't sure if she's hit the hot water handle or the cold. She figures it doesn't really matter. As long as she has something else to focus on. Something to keep the colour to her face.

She pulls a mug from the tiny buildup of need-to-wash-dishes with a smiling snowman beaming at her, places it under the stream, and turns back to watch Ronda continue reading from the booth.

I feel so awful, Beth. This is not any proper way to treat you. I'm so sorry.

I want so badly to go back into your room I—

I can't let it be this way. Not right now.

The truth is…I'm gonna be gone for a while. I honestly couldn't tell you when I'll be back.

Slowly, Ronda flexes the stale tilt of her shoulders and meets Beth stare, pulling her back into reality.

The mug overflows with boiling water, pools back into the drain, and is entirely forgotten.

She knows why Ronda's searching for her now. It's that same stare that Beth wore on the subway when her eyes caught the way the  _'the truth is'_  is scratched through over and over and over. The same stare that makes her realises that she had analyzed those words for so long that streaks of tears are seeping out remind her that she needs to blink, but she just can't.

Ronda waits for Beth to sit but the blonde continues to stand, locked there. She actually has to reach out to push her back into the booth. The green in her friend's eyes looks a little awestruck. Wide and incisive.

She leans back again with a quiet clear of her throat as she reads the ending of the letter.

""I promise I'll call you as soon as we land, but for now my cellphone is going to be off, and you won't be able to reach me till tomorrow. But we'll talk then, and I'll explain myself. I know this is sudden. I know you're probably upset, but please, don't be afraid of being alone.'" Ronda's eyes settle to Beth's for a moment before she continues. "'You're brave, Beth. And today is your first month of working this job that allowed me to meet you in the first place. From everything I've ever hid from, that's incredible. Please go to it. Be with your friend. Now I've really gotta go, but there's one more thing I want you to do for me. Try to promise me you'll'—" She suddenly stops.

Her lips drop into a scowl.

She flips the paper around. Sideways. Upside down. "What?" She glances at Beth in absolute confusion. "It just  _ends?_  Just like that? The hell?" She digs into Beth. "What is it? What did he want you to promise him?"

"I—" Beth moves a hand to touch at the torn edges. Her stomach drops at the way Ronda's face tightens at her, bewildered, black eyebrows etching into pale skin. She hopes, with all of her might, that she can hold out over her lie. If Ronda knew the truth, Beth could only imagine how she'd never be truly alone to find out. "I don't know. I just found it that way. He must've torn it."

"What?" Ronda retorts blankly. She seems to stare at Beth for a long time before she can find the words again. "And this is all he left? Nothing else?"

Beth studies the chips inside the plastered wood between them. Her fingers pick again at the article. "I've tried calling Natasha and Steve's cells to only get their voice mail, so, in a way, yeah. But …there's one more thing. Another paper."

Ronda snorts skeptically. "Oh,  _please_  tell me it's just as outrageous as the last."

"It's…different." Beth straightens back up. She brings in a dry breath from the lukewarm air harbored in the building just before she carefully lifts the deteriorating paper from her lap to lay it along the table. It doesn't stay flat, though. It's just too old to stay pressed. "Honestly, I have no idea if it's even Steve's. But." A pause. "It  _has_ to be." She looks straight at Ronda. "Shouldn't it be?"

Ronda looks right back at her. "Are you asking me, or are you telling me?"

Beth braces her elbows to the table to droop her head. "I don't know, Ron. It was just there when I woke up. Maybe he had it on him while he slept? It just…it sounds so… stupid."

"Alright, alright," Ronda falters. She briefly moves a hand to smooth back Beth's hair. "I'll look at it."

Ronda doesn't bother to actually touch it. She braces her hands onto the table top and hoists herself up read it. Her hair is starting to come undone and it falls along her temples as she concentrates—but suddenly she sits right back down and brings out a hand to hold the article in place. "Wait."

Beth's heart skips at the sudden movement. "Yeah?"

"Before I read this and I probably just get more and more pissed off at your boyfriend, I want to talk to you about what I'm been  _trying_ to talk to you about. Could we do that, possibly?"

Beth's face turns as white as the snow outside, but her lips are a bitten flurry of red as she gasps. "Oh God, Ronda, I told you, I haven't seen him."

"I know that, Beth," Ronda counters strongly. "But I just…I have to tell you what I saw, okay?"

"Why is it so important?"

"Because I think it  _matters_ ," Ronda emphasizes heatedly. "Because I care about you. Because now that Steve's dropped off the face of the earth without even so much as a goodbye to you, I can finally  _pry you away_  from this whole—freakin'—disaster that you're so happily living in. You have to talk to me now. You  _owe_  me this talk."

"Okay," Beth picks up her head to give her friend her full attention. "You're right," she replies hollowly.

"Thank you," Ronda whispers loudly in long anticipated appreciation. "Steve's friend. What's his name—Roland?" She grabs Beth's wrists from across the table. "I was talking to him, that time where he just suddenly showed up to talk to Steve about his 'condition'? And—Beth." She squeezes her wrists, hard. "He  _sneezed_  and the all the lights in the building flickered at once." She lowers her voice although the break room is empty. "But that's not all. His eyes were glowing. In. The. Dark."

"In the dark?" Beth repeats slowly. Ronda's shaken expression is full of conviction. Beth's questioning reflex is only to soak in Ronda's words one more time. "Are you sure?"

" _Dead_ sure. I paid attention. He's not bad to look at—but then, holy shit, those eyes." Beth feels the shake from Ronda's own shiver. "They were so…unnatural."

The blonde simpers. "I…I don't know what you want me to say, Ronda." She pictures the strange, graceful giant of a man that wrapped her in his jacket. Those dark blue eyes that seemed to be deep and inexplicably wise, staring at her, judging her through the collapse of her own psyche. "He saved Steve's life that day in the park. And Steve's heavy. He's got to be so strong to lift someone up without a second thought." She swallows drily into a low voice. "Do you think he's a mutant?"

Ronda inhales sharply. "I don't know, Beth. But to me, this only means that he's all the more dangerous.  _All_ of them. You know what they're saying about mutants, right? That they stick together. They…feed…off of each other. Just the other night, I heard Jeremy talking to Sarah how he apparently saw some insane fistfight between two mutants. Completely trashed this bar on 33rd. They said that  _knives_  came out of their hands. Fucking. Knives." Her eyes seem to expand, growing darker. More sad. She sighs wearily. "Look, I don't know what to say over the letter. I'm sorry Steve's suddenly gone on this long trip but…maybe…maybe it's better…this way?"

Gone. Better this way.  
 _  
_Everything about Steve's light and laughter. Every comforting, warm, heart-breaking secret he's whispered to her in the dark.  
 _  
A mistake.  
_  
Beth's chest  _tightens._ A sharp, cutting hurt curls inside of her heart, but she pretends to not feel the pain. She's pallid at the idea of giving up after all she's seen.

"I'm not going to stop seeing him."

Ronda exhales slowly. "I know you aren't. I figured that out pretty quickly the night you basically told me to get the frick out your apartment because you were going to stay with a bleeding stranger asleep in your bed."

She holds Beth's hand, trying to fill the empty spaces with the isolated way Beth is gazing at her.

"I'm just trying to keep this in perspective for you, Beth. I love you. And after the aliens…and—and man-made superheroes and your—" She halts, despair lingering in the green resting of her irises. Her voice is a near whisper. "This is getting way bigger than just dating someone, Beth." Her eyes harden ever so slightly. "This  _scares_  me. Steve and his friends—they're  _freaks_ , and they _scare_  me." There's a wobble of surrender to her next few words: "And I'm scared that you don't see it."

"Oh, Ronda," Beth's eyes burn at the edges, threatening to unleash all of the uncertainly she's felt since she woke up in an empty bed. She scoots outs of the booth to pull Ronda into a hug. "Don't you dare cry—" She continues weakly. "I've been doing a great job all day; you'd be proud of me! Don't cry!"

Ronda curls around her, arms tight around her neck. "I am proud of you." She strains into a murmur, her voice frustrated and exasperated tangle to Beth's neck. "I may not like Rogers…but I am proud of you. He made a point of your coming into work today—and I don't think you came just because he asked you to. You came because you're getting better. I am  _so_  proud of you."

A sniff sneaks out from Beth and she gets a glimpse of the scent of baked goods and vanilla shifting onto Ronda's dark hair. "Are you? Really? This whole time…it consumed me how much I was putting on you. I thought you hated me."

"I could never hate you, Beth." Ronda laughs. She hugs her tighter. "A whole month. Man. You did good, Princess Buttercup."

"Ugh, dammit Ronda," Beth squirms out of her grasp. "You ruined it."

"Heh," Ronda pulls back, both hands to Beth's petite shoulders so she can get a good look at her best friend. "I miss you. Just so you know. I'm alive and stuff. And there's this great whole world outside of Steve."

A flicker of a small smile across Beth's lips. "Just…please look at this, and I promise I won't drag you into my drama anymore." Her blue eyes are large and round, and Ronda nearly rolls her own.

"Not like you have t'beg me, Beth. I'm interested in what crap he's trying to pull. TV isn't even this good."

Beth's fingers snatch up the crumpled smile of a dead man. "Read it."

* * *

"James Buchanan Barnes," Ronda murmurs. She crosses one leg over the other and picks idly at the straw in Beth's drink. "Too bad he's dead. He's certainly handsome in this picture."

The humid air has fogged the windows next to their elbows since the last time they sat down. Although she can't see anything, it makes Beth uncomfortable to watch Ronda's eyes twist across the page like a typewriter, so she stares into the fog. The last huddles of remaining costumers squeal at the gust of the wind outside the café's door. It's been snowing for hours now and since the evening is approaching, the temperature just keeps dropping.

"James. Buchanan. Barnes." She pronounces slowly again, appreciating the rolling 's's over her tongue. "He's got one of those names, you know? Like, it just kind've sticks to you. What's it called? Alliteration?" She trails off again once more. "Born 1922, died 1943, in a train sabotage mission during World War II." Her legs switch again. "I didn't think people smiled back then, right? Like, 'hey boys, put your war face on and—cheese!'"

Beth stifles a laugh. "Be polite! He was so young when he died. Basically our age." The blonde lasps again into silence as Ronda reads on. "Could you imagine—dying so young?" A pause. "Right in the middle of a war? Possibly all alone?"

Ronda's eyes peer over the holes in the obituary. She carefully nudges her knee into Beth's. "Don't. Don't think about your bother. Seriously. He's coming home."

Beth forces a tight, mournful smile, but it fades as she pulls back to the window.

"What the hell kind've a middle name is Buchanan, anyway?"

_"Ronda."_

"So…you just found this in your bed?"

The blonde slowly turns, but she has trouble keeping up with Ronda's extracting eyes. "Right where Steve fell asleep. Yeah."

"Hm. You guys haven't—" A slight kick causes Beth's knee to reflectively tap the underside of the table. Her blue eyes startlingly jump to Ronda's.

"No!" Beth objects embarrassingly.

"'Kay, okay. Coverin' the bases here." A slight chuckle. "If you know what I mean."

"Ronda, for God's sake- finish the article!"

" _James Buchanan Barnes_ ," Ronda recites suddenly, dramatically, a hand to her chest. " _One of the greatest losses suffered for the great war. He'll take his place in history as—"_  Her voice slows. "Place in history." Green eyes pounce to blue. "Beth. Do...do you know where Steve got this?"

Beth nods expectantly at Ronda's delay. "Yeah…it shocked me, too. Historical artifacts like that…they're pretty priceless, aren't they?"

"No." Something behind Ronda's eyes seems to pulse. "I mean—where this is from?"

Beth shakes her head. "What?"

"I've seen this guy before."

_"What?"_

Ronda clasps a hand to her forehead as if suddenly struck with an epiphany. "That's why his name sounds so _—_ Beth, my dear." Ronda slowly slides the paper back across the table. "What are your plans for after work?"

* * *

"'The Intrepid Sea, Air, and Space Museum'?" Beth reads out from the glowing sign above the towering building. The metal plates that hold in the spacious warmth are practically melting the snow off the slides, easing it to the sidewalk below. "What does this have to do with—"

Ronda tilts her head. "Seriously? You're like, the biggest closeted Cap fan I know, and you aren't aware there's a new part of Air and Space museum here? It's like a traveling thing, I think. All Captain America history."

Her blush is small, but it highlights her face. "I mean, I saw commercials for the huge, official one in Washington D.C. But here? Not at all. But…why Captain America?"

Ronda stomps her boots out at the doorway and holds it open for Beth to walk through. "You don't go out anywhere, do you?"

Beth's stiff, straight a-head glare is all the payment Ronda needs to get them tickets.

* * *

When Beth finally sees the Captain America banner, her breath is taken away.

He's  _everywhere._

A giant, life-sized, hand-painted mural is lovely crafted as the backdrop. Even besides Cap, Beth can count the eyelashes on the men following the Captain's lead over 40 feet back, it's so intricately detailed. The whole piece is a living, breathing, time-captured machine of green cloth, dirty, jagged nails and open mouth screaming of long forgotten orders. The background throws itself into a romantic depiction of tank about to fire, with Allied men pouring into the foreground, slowly turning from 2-D paintings into fully realized statures of a team of mutli-coloured soldiers from across the globe.

At the very first line—towering on the center piece in the room, Captain America leads the call. He's stretched out, head tilted back to shout to—what Beth now understands to be—his original team:  _The Howling Commandos._ They've each been given plaques on the adjacent side of the work.

Soft crafted dummies holds their uniforms. They're been washed and dusted and probably flame-retardant by now, but each stands on their own, strong and indifferent to their fate. She runs her fingers over the engravings, smooth, cold and untouched.

_Timothy Aloysius "Dum Dum" Dugan—_ a ginger man with a mustache keeps to the Captain's right. Apparently, he was friends with the legendary Howard Stark long after the Captain vanished and the war was over.  _Gabe Jones_ — first African American welcomed onto the intentional team and machine gun extraordinaire stands to Dugan's back. Close by is  _Jim Morita_ , a Japanese-American soldier that Captain America had saved from a concentration camp.  _James Montgomery Falsworth_  and  _Jacques Dernier_ , members of the 3rd Independent Parachute Brigade of the British army, aren't far from the model's right. The clothing straight to Captain America's left, however, isn't named, and suddenly Beth's interest in their history fades as she finds that the faceless mannequin seems to be looking straight at her, disturbingly holding itself still and solemn around the golden names.

Beth glances around for Ronda—and finds her studying a shield of glass that keeps the exact motorcycle Captain America used during World War II in mint condition. The dark-haired waitress catches the look on Beth's face and giggles.

The sound seems to echo all around the empty chamber.

"No fun staring at ghosts?"

Beth swallows nervously as she fast walks closer. "Don't say that, Ron."

"What's the face for, then?"

She gives a small glance to the floor. "I don't know." A look behind her, back at the nameless uniform. "One of Captain America's men isn't labeled properly, and it bugs me because…well." She opens her arms to motion to the rest of the intensely organized history of the Super Soldier. "Everything else is."

"Ah," Ronda coos understandingly. "It sounds like you're ready for what we came here for."

Beth follows the clicking of boots towards the other end of the hall. Its lights seem to be shining even heavier over the air, bringing the dust to the surface in waves as it floats from exhibit to exhibit. Ronda stops at the edge of a crystal cut memorial. For a second, Beth thinks it's something along the lines of the Vietnam Memorial—a list of thousands of names carved artistically into a reflecting obsidian stone wall that casts your face right back at you, like looking into a mirror.

But this one is so opaque that the blonde can stare right through it.

"What are we looking at?"

"Your friend." Ronda states simply. She then steps out of Beth's way.

Suddenly, she's staring straight into the eyes of James Buchanan Barnes.

She shudders a step back immediately. A hand flies up to cover her mouth as she gasps. She looks to Ronda for help—but instantly snaps back, held captive by the empty blue carved into the man's eyes. His entire image is here—but he's not smiling like in the photograph in her pocket. No, this time his lips are split open to bear his teeth as he charges, cheek turned to look back behind him as if he's perpetually waiting for an attack. His hair is cut, styled—entirely too perfect for what it must've been like during the war—but it's  _him._

Before she realises what she's doing, she's barely presses the pad of her fingers to his face. Her lungs feel as if they're struggling to compress and her exhale sounds far too loud, as if the entire museum had been holding itself breath for this very moment.

"Oh my God." Beth whispers, blue eyes shockingly wide. "What are  _you_  doing here?"

She leans closer to try to read the beautifully carved writing surrounding his engraving.

A hand instinctively rummages through her pocket for the obituary. Once she finds it, she unfurls it carefully and holds it up. The wording is different. The dates are concussed. But it's the same man. Even without the smile, the lines of his piercing eyes are unmistakable. The bridge of his nose, the jut of his chin. His hairline is flat along his forehead. The missing details between the photos highlight to Beth the subtly of a man being shipped out for war and a man holding his body against one.

"James Buchanan Barnes," Beth reads off thoughtfully. "The right hand man to Captain America. Inseparable both on the school yard and the battlefield. Unfortunately, many documents surrounding the affairs before Sgt. Barnes' death have been lost over time. It is known that he was orphaned at a young age and sent off to the same school that Captain America attended during boyhood. It's among friends and colleagues alike where he took the affectionate nickname of "Bucky"—" Her voice cuts off. She blinks. Reads the nickname again.

The colour drains from her face.

_Bucky._

A rush of adrenaline spikes through Beth's heart. She can't feel the trembling of her body. Beside her, Ronda's hands raise in concern. She's asking Beth something. Someone is speaking to her. Someone is telling her a secret—someone is whispering so close to the shell of her ear she can feel their lips tracing every word.

_Bucky._  Her thoughts whisper, low and dark, sounding so much like Steve's that she swears he's standing behind her, his breath warm on the back of her neck—  _His name was Bucky._

"No!" She cries out, but its Ronda that's got her, looking alarmed and perspiring.

She pulls her hand off the glass of the memorial as if it's about to fall apart.

A step back. Another step back. She feels a hand grasp her shoulder.

She can't stop staring into the eyes of a young dead man that's been lost for over 70 years. Staring in the empty blue that reminds Beth of a shifting sea, rising, falling, sinking—like the handwriting of someone she trusts—like the muted, sad image of another young man with blond hair and imploding blue eyes staring out into the bay that she's had a first date on with a stranger that took her hand and told her that his best friend's name was—

_He was KIA,_ the voice whispers again from far away. So far away. Months away. Years away.  _It's pretty recent and yet… it feels like a thousand years ago._

The words are curling off the stone, swirling around the room.

_Barnes gave his life for his country, for his honour, and for his best friend during an feat of incredible bravery while capturing a Nazi occupied train along the Alps. The greatest loss—_  
 _  
_There's a sharp pain to her sides as if two knives are going in at once. She rushes to hold herself together. The black and white photo is crushed between her fingers and she just keeps squeezing it tighter. She wants it to crumble. She wants it to be dust.

Someone is telling her a secret.

_I hid so well, Bucky didn't even know._

_Didn't even know, didn't even know, didn't even know,_  Beth's eyes want to close but she can't shut out the blue. It's washing over her. It's suffocating her. Ronda's already pulled her sturdily away from the gallery. She's in front of her now. Blocking the stare of the faceless soldier. Blocking the shine of crystalline eyes. Her green eyes are a light that is cutting through the panic.

Someone is telling her a secret.

_Alive. My best friend could be alive._

Men from a long fought war have turned up their guns to take their aim, no longer listening to Captain America's commands. The motorcycle in the corner is turning against its chain, growling and dreading its prison. The dead man is stirring. His eyes have moved from looking behind to looking at her. Everything is looking at her. The dead man is demanding her to give him a name.

"But I don't know your name," Beth whimpers up at him. She's slid onto the cold, solid tiles beneath her.

He doesn't believe her. He knows. He knows she's lying because she's scared. She's so scared.

Someone is telling her a secret.

_I don't know if I can handle one more thing to change.  
_  
Fingers are battling to open up Beth's hand. She wishes she could help. She isn't sure how to move anymore. She feels air on her palm. The paper is gone.

Gone.

Steve's gone.

Her vision turns to black as she's pulled out of the room and into the night.

* * *

Ronda's splashing snow straight onto her face. The icy bite along her cheeks forces Beth to wake up.

She drags herself forward and collapses back into the snow as Ronda's voice carries, fast and far too high, to a police officer that her friend doesn't need medical attention.

"It's a panic attack triggered by claustrophobia. I'll get her home safe, sir, don't worry."

Beth opens her mouth to force herself to vomit to only be greeting to the taste of ice on a New York City sidewalk.

A pair of soft hands are holding up the cascade of her yellow hair. There's a slight nervous pause where nothing happens.

"No throwing up this time?"

Beth swallows down some bile and refuses to be sick. Refuses to cry again in public, or scare Ronda.

"Not this time," she agrees hoarsely. She weakly lifts up one arm and Ronda pulls her up from the snow. Ronda keeps her arm around Beth's waist for support.

The walk to the subway seems so far away. She keeps hearing labored breathing and pretends that it isn't her own.

"I'm not going to ask what happened." Ronda says quietly. "You don't have to tell me." Her best friend's voice turns angry, but it's not at Beth. "I should have never taken you there. After all the stress you've handled perfectly well today. This my fault."

The snow falls silently through their hair for the longest time before Beth finally has enough air to answer her. "No. Thank you for taking me there. I needed to see that."

Ronda stops, but when Beth tries to continue ahead she doesn't realise they've broken apart.

"Did you?" Ronda asks flatly with a voice that is tired and harsh on the wind.

"Yes," Beth begins dazedly. "I have to ask his friend, though. If it's true."

_"What?"_  Ronda snaps, unable to really hear her. The snow has picked up. She can see that Beth's slowly turning in some strange direction that isn't back to her apartment. "The hell is wrong with you? You're going home. You're going to sleep."

Ronda rushes into the wind and takes her friend's hand.

"Come along, Princess Buttercup." She gives Beth's hand a small tug, and is relieved with the blonde doesn't put up a fight. "I can't spend the night with you…but I'm going to make damn sure you get through it."

 


	38. A Promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Updated 5/11/014 for minor things. Fixed 6/19 as well. Thank you so very much to everyone that has favourited, followed, reviewed and enjoyed. I am happy to announce that I officially have a new Beta (to save your poor, sorry eyes from my shameful errors) so FEAR NOT ANYMORE FROM ME! The incredible TheDreamSmith is now playing the martyr for you all. Isn't that just amazing? I know. I'm scared for him, too. He's going to hate me for talking him into joining this website. I guarantee it. (But you guys should go check out his work. ;)
> 
> All right, ladies and gents, please keep your hands, arms, legs, and feelings inside the ride as this fic takes off.

Chapter 39: A Promise

* * *

The nail of Beth's thumb sits along her bottom lip as she chews thickly at its edge. It's the last part of her body that she can realistically tear at without drawing blood. Ronda has made sure of this. She can feel the hum of Ronda's breath, short and silent, clamor through clenched teeth; an unspeakable argument is ongoing in the thick, solid, frozen air between them.

They've reached the apartment door, and Ronda can't keep holding on her elbow like this. It's starting to leave red marks. Beth's fingers slip into her pocket, aimlessly looking for a key.

"You've still got the thing, right?" It's Ronda's voice next to her. The faintest of lights had been left on from Beth's living room, and it's the only way Beth can see enough to continue to claw mindlessly at the front door. Ronda's dark hair is melting from the drifting of snow soaked against a cheekbone, taught against thinning skin. Yet, Ronda's always repairs again by morning. Beth wishes she knew how to open up her own body and set her connect nerves back together in a reliable, 24 hour process.

A slight scraping of folded paper on wood. "The letter. Yeah."

"No," Ronda is squinting at her. Her face is pale and tight. "The  _other_  thing."

_The other thing_  is something Beth cannot handle right now. It's a white-washed wall of doubt and suffocation and Steve. But she has it. It's crumpled and torn and in her coat pocket.

"Yeah," she gulps. "That's there, too."

"You want me to shuffle around for the spare key?" The curve of a boot is shifting back and forth along a mat.

"I've got this," Beth says hurriedly over her knuckle while her eyes flash to Ronda, although she isn't sure if she has any right to say that to anyone at the moment.

Ronda promptly shuts up as the door jiggles and is thrown open by the sudden jarring push of Beth's arm. It slams into the living room wall but the blonde stomps through without a care.

Ronda follows only after glancing behind to make sure that no one else has stuck their nose out of their apartment to investigate the bang. The street is empty except for the streetlights letting off their usual conversation of electric buzzing at the lonely, desperate arms of the trees. She lets out a sigh as the door closes.

"Have these locks always sucked?"

Beth sat down with her jacket still on. The sleeves are still moist with dirt and freezing wind. "It's New York. It wouldn't be authentic if you didn't constantly have yourself ready to be mugged at all hours of the day."

Ronda huffs, deciding that Beth's bitter humor is better than watching Beth throw up after all. "Right."

She sinks onto the spare seat next to blonde. "So." Her tongue clicks. "You seem better."

Beth pushes her hands out from her pockets and flexes her fingers, as if aware that her own body isn't so much a disaster than a containment zone. "I think you're right."

"Not like last time at all. I mean, you didn't throw up. You didn't cry. Just that  _tiny_  panic attack in the museum. On the subway it seemed like… you just kind've…went into yourself—and came back out." Ronda continues. A shoulder nudges into Beth's own. "That's worth celebrating."

Beth raises the interest in her voice just enough to fight off its flatness. Ronda's words…they're just placid comfort. "With that?"

"Well." Beth can hear the suction of air through touching teeth as Ronda inhales. "I was thinking that maybe you'd earned some trust from me."

The space between her lungs, in the middle of her chest, seems to ache with how it springs to life. "I don't have your trust?"

"No, no. A break, I mean. From me smothering you." Ronda finishes quickly. "To not have me breathing down your neck. More than me just eventually having to leave you. That I could say that, from what I've seen, you've done almost entirely without me." Her darkened eyes meet Beth's before they break away. "If you had needed."

For a movement, Beth's own breathing stills. She swallows slowly, tasting the words  _Smothering_  and  _Trust_  in one go, bittersweet _._  Honestly, it's only since meeting Steve that Beth's ever thought of Ronda's intentions to be anything like smothering that made one missed call from Ronda turn into aversion and a sickness in her throat at facing her. But she's never thought of how Ronda might considering her reactions towards a traumatized person, either.

She takes the offensive. "Ronda—please don't think that you haven't been helping me." Beth gives her the best attempt of keeping her eyes earnest and blue, but they're stinging with the thought of Steve's eyes with their own natural appeal, and she can only think she's giving poor man's version of tangible integrity.

Ronda rests her elbows on her knees. "I've never told you but…I've sort've noticed this change in you. Since Steve." She keeps her eyes forward so that Beth can't see their terribly vulnerable stare she's gifting into the unlighted, tiny Christmas tree. "And I guess it finally hit me today that…that maybe all this time I haven't been helping you at all. I've just bitched at you and complained."

"Ron—"

"Stop." She interjects quietly. "I just wanted to apologise for that." Her fingers cinch into her jeans, digging into her legs. "Just. A part of me was scared that if I couldn't help you, that Steve would make it worse. But he hasn't. He's...he's actually made you better in all these unknown ways that are just so far over my head—and I just wanted to say that I sort've knew that." A hard, painful pause. "And after your reaction today. Now that he's gone. I guess I'm just…impressed."

Beth chokes on the compliment in shock.  _"Impressed?"_

"Yeah. Because this process of healing is suddenly stripped from you—and you didn't even cry."

Beth studies the empty tinseled boxes along her décor. "Yeah," she agrees slowly. "I haven't cried. I wanted to, but…" The air is gone from her lungs before she can pick a word to express what she's about to do and what Ronda cannot possibly ever know. It's right there on the edge of her lips, but she's saying: "I guess I'm getting more mature than that."

_This is good_ , she thinks to herself.  _This has to be good._  She shifts her eyes towards her bedroom, and it feels like all of her veins are tightening with this unknown, strange essence of needed pull out the letter and the paper and to go in there and—

A shoulder bumps again, knocking Beth's attention back to earth. A shrug. "Exactly. Which is why I want to try to end this on some kind of good note."

Beth lets out a small, mild chuckle. "Good note." She pulls out the letter from her pocket. The stare of Barnes from his place tucked into her jeans. "Nice one."

Ronda pulls herself up from the couch as if she's the one that needs the distance from everything and anything that's triggered Beth's episode. She even has trouble look at it under the dim ceiling light. She watches the blonde smooth out the papers before collecting herself from the cushion and moving back towards the door.

Another inhale of a horribly repressed, lung shriveling, eye-pleading barrage of  _what happened?_  is exchanged between them, but Beth's already half closed the door, pretending to be cold. It's unspoken and unacknowledged.

Ronda gently reaches out to graze her knuckles across Beth's chin. "Those eyes kill me, smalls." She pulls Beth tight against her until Beth is sure Ronda could play the plates in her spine like a xylophone. Then she pulls away. "You'd tell me if I was doing something stupid? I can stay longer. It's only 9 pm."

"No," Beth says easily. It's so easy. It's too easy this way. She's trembling from head to foot; her lips could be made of melting wax, uncomfortable and malleable and easy to see that she's grinding out the will to tell her best friend that she's going to be okay because she promised Steve something and she's never going to break another promise again. "It just means so much to hear that you trust me with myself."

The relieved way that Ronda smiles at her causes Beth's heart to palpitate and her eyesight to dim into half-crescent moons. She keeps her eyes convincingly pleased to stop the tears from showing. They're gathering at the crinkles in her lids, horribly terrified and temptingly excited and willing to stop Beth's final tie to her once safe and altered life from leaving her alone.

"I'm learning. I just hope you learn how to trust yourself, too."

* * *

Beth's hands stray towards her nightstand.

To the drawer.

She swears that if she looks hard enough, she can see the relentless, minute, heart-beat of a red light seeping through the loose, uncontained edges. Almost. But it's still there. She knows it is, and it leaves her chest heavy, too heavy, to the point where she leans her head back to study the open window, watching the snow outside waltz and float, wondering if she waits long enough, it'll teach her how to fly away, too.

She pulls at the handle.

She hasn't so much as looked at the damn thing since that night where Natasha's burning eyes had broken in and turned her world into a smoldering, confusing, chaos.

The only thing that keeps her hand steady as she opens the drawer is the fact that the rest of Steve's letter is inside of it. She had torn it herself and shoved it away, back when her heart was lodged inside of her throat and she fought to breathe while she tied the strings of her apron around her. The fragments of that night, suddenly so long ago, hit her like a freight train.  
 _  
(_ _"Feel this." Natasha's burning eyes are hurting her. "Do you feel this?" The strength in those long fingers are shattering her strength. "_ _Do_ _you?")_

"Yes," Beth whispers, her voice weak as she can finally understands the answer. "I do."

She looks at the still, unbreakable darkness of her bedroom. She has two separate papers between her fingers, and she shudders. She could feel the weight of practically everything around her. The motor of her fan, the motion of wind through her window pane, the sheets like hands tugging at her back. The weight of Steve's absence.

Steve.

She can feel Steve's letter. She can feel the stare of a dead man on her face but she just has to close her eyes to shut him out.

She can't look at him again.

No. God, no. Not yet. Not until she's asked.

She heaves the bottom of the drawer out to lay it on her bed and sinks beside it, staring at the red light of the panic button that Natasha had given her.

_("If you feel threatened. Ever." Natasha had allowed to her. "You will trigger this device. It will handle everything.")_

Beth could still feel the stagger of her had pushed the square thing back into the other woman's grueling grasp _. ("I don't_ _want_ _this.")_

She takes a breath. Opens her eyes. She lays the first half of Steve's letters along her sheets and tucks the article back into her jean pocket. Then, carefully, she places in one hand to touch at the end of Steve's letter. She can feel the bumps from the rushed words. She runs her nail along the ripped edges of own her handiwork.

Try to promise me you'll do this if you're ever scared at night. At the bottom of this page, there's an address. Promise me that if you ever feel scared, anxious, anything— even during the day— I want you to go there.

She runs a forefinger down the buttons square, smooth face. It's cool to the touch. Reaching in, she curls her fingers around it, letting the flesh of her hand cut into its groove until she's memorized the pressure it'll take to trigger the thing. It's got some kind of faintly etched in symbol, grey and black, that she can barely recognize. It is almost like a bird unfurling its huge wings.

She picks up the button and slides it into her coat. She then checks for her cellphone, key, wallet, and double-checks for the bottom half of Steve's letter for directions. And for the obituary.

_This is it._  She thinks, sliding out the door and into the late night traffic.  _This is good._

She touches at the image of Bucky inside her coat. _  
_  
 _This is where I have to go._

* * *

She's outside of Steve's apartment, and there's music _._

It's loud.  _Very_  loud. She had heard it nearly four flights below while she was climbing up. It's nearly rattling the door with a relentless tempo—something akin to big band, or swing. Her eyes settle half-heartedly over the silver doorknob.

There's no way she could politely knock and be heard. She looks to Steve's letter for support.

I'm going to ask a friend of mine to house sit for a while. He's real nice. Very friendly. He's funny, too. I think you'd enjoy his company.

There is light on from the inside. It's surprisingly blinding against the multitude of shut doors that recede down the dark and empty floor. She looks down at the letter again.

There's also my neighbor across the hall. I can't say I know her terribly well, but she's a polite gal. She's always leaving in scrubs whenever I catch her going to work, and it occurred to me that maybe you two could talk about—

She stops reading to take in a breath.  _More friends._  She can deal with  _more_ of Steve's friends later.

Beth. There's more. There's so much more I want to tell you, but now I absolutely have to leave. Keep in mind that I'll call you as soon as I can.  
  
She carefully balances on the balls of her feet as she bends down to push her fingertips along the dirt-stained mat to find the spare key that Steve had mentioned.

I'll miss you.

– Steve

She nearly jumps when a trumpet echoes from under the crack in the door, and she tightens her fingers into the metal rivets. Each groove forms little indents. The light shines along her boots with a warm, welcoming light against the grime of a strange building in a neighborhood she doesn't know, and that thought is enough to get her side. The key turns smoothly,. The door gently opens without a sound.

* * *

Steve's apartment is  _immaculate._

Almost too immaculate. It's so still and clean, it's as if no one has ever even lived in it.

She's standing alone in a short hallway that's warm, with the solid familiar surface of a hardwood floor, and is hit with the smell of shoe polish, of mint and cinnamon. Her lips open into a delighted smile at how it smells like Steve—she nearly wants to call out for him. Like he's here. Surprise. The loud, cheerful music doesn't make her feelings any more rational. Surprise… It's a party, it's so happy _. Surprise_ …her stomach tightens at the sudden rush of how very far away he probably is from her.

But it's  _his_  scent, and God, she'll take it.

The hallway extends along smooth, cream coloured wallpaper. There are picture frames lining the walls, but what catches her eye is that they're real ones. The kind that are engraved with dark borders and plaster with a velvet back to hold them straight. All of the photos are in black and white—most of them of distant places that look old and some that look out of a novel. Noir, she guesses.

There are photos of people as well. Strangers with stylized chair and raised chins. They poised as well. The strange, focused, nearly staged kind, where they're sitting up straight in broad-backed chairs. No one is smiling, but their profiles are all soft light and contrasting shadow, laying out all of their pock-marks and imperfections. But there are laugh lines to the corner of their eyes. Beth can't help but be captured by the brightness to the whites of their eyes, as if they don't even need to smile. They simply shine their emotions. One photograph is of a woman with dark, brilliant eyes and a slight smirk to her lips. Her polished eyebrows are raised knowingly, as if to say  _snap that camera, you silly boy, I haven't all day to sit here and dilly-dally._

Beth takes her time to study every face, but she can't decide which of them is the most beautiful. She wonders who each of them are—and how or why Steve knows them. She can't help but rest a hand to touch at the photo of Bucky to her side as a shiver runs up her back.

_It can't be true,_ she tells herself _, you can think like this until you ask. You have to ask_.

Her body tightens like a vice and she breathes out to force the feeling of free-falling through the floor. She closes her eyes and turns away, keeping the throb out of her chest.

The music's just getting louder and  _louder.  
_  
Suddenly, she's in a small resting area. A chimney made of real maroon bricks greets her from the cornered end of the walk-in hall. Polished wood makes up the lavished, old fashioned mantle, along with a handsome leather recliner and a tremendously tall book shelf that completely trumps her own. It's stacked full of books bound without sleeves, but hard cloth made tight woven fibers, along with those fancy looking ribbon bookmarks peeking out from their centers. Beth only assumed that the super-rich or super pretentious actually own books with  _ribbon_  placeholders…but Steve didn't seem pretentious at all.

_Did he actually read all of these?_

Near the seat is the source of the jazz band. An actual, real record on a record player. Needle and all. It's sleek and black, with mesh stereo covers for the speakers—she steps closer to touch at the knob to turn the music down but stops herself.

There's dust on the metal knob. Carefully, she turns it down just enough so that it's an atmospheric hum of jazz drifting through the rooms. She only hopes it wasn't so loud that the police are going to be called for a domestic disturbance. Deliberately, she spins around to look at the seat, the fireplace, the bookshelf. There's dust in the grooves. Dust in the vents. Dust on the railings. Slowly she runs two fingers along the furniture and comes back to a dignified layer of dust coating her skin. She rubs her fingers together until she nearly sneezes.  
 _  
What?_  She barely stops herself from speaking the word out loud. She slides her hands into her coat pockets to gather Steve's letter. Bucky's article. Her thoughts. The photos along the walls are crisp and organized. The air suddenly tastes stale. The jazz music now seems slow and sad…something to slow dance to.

(" _Do you want to dance?" She had asked him, one hand extended along the dock where the blue in Steve's eyes turned to ice. He couldn't even bare to look at her.)  
_  
 _Steve,_  She balls her hands into fists, crushing the papers.  _Who are you?_  
  
The light touches at the corners of the wall. A final hallway leads into it, which is glimmering along a hardwood floor and cuts itself off at what looks to be white kitchen tiles. As she gets closer she can make out the unmistakable pooling shadow of another person.

"Hello?" Beth calls awkwardly as she can over the quiet crooning of tender, lonely love ballad. "I'm sorry to just walk in on you like this but I—" She freezes.

Her knees lock instantly.

There's a man's body that's propped up in a kitchen chair, with long legs leaning along the turned back of another, and the sudden, rapid sight of someone just  _lying there_ causes her heart to skip. She only knows he's alive due to the silent rise and fall of his chest. One of his arms is laid into his lap, while the other hangs lifelessly to his side, fingers open and relaxed, barely touch the tiles. His hair is the catching light is dark and long, practically touching his shoulders, dripping down like a screen.

She feels lightheaded, gazing at him from the doorway, but she goes unnoticed.

His head is lolled back against the chair. His eyes are closed.

She quickly checks him over. The phrase  _one of Steve's friends_  echoes along her lips, and he still could be. He's in a uniform. But it's not one Beth has seen before.

His chest is entirely black—at first she thinks it's blood—but he's wrapped in what she only can think is a something padded and compact. The word  _Bulletproof_ rings through her mind the second she looks at him. There's a flexible cords that run up his sides, holding in the grey-jean material where thick threads carry from the harsh, obsidian combat boots to the carbon fibers that are holding the rest of his suit together.

It's not military. It's not anything close to what her brother has worn. It's not government issued.

It's not what she imagined Steve's friend would be.

It's unlike any image she can possibly flicker through her mind within seconds of staring at him.  _It's not Avengers._  Her heart catches onto that phrase and it tramples through her veins with a fast-spreading, unconscious fear.  _It's not Avengers.  
_

Her mouth feels like it is full of sand. She can barely swallow. She forces herself to take one step forward, just so she can just barely make out his face before she understands why she couldn't before.

He's wearing a mask. Almost like a kind of muzzle that's made out of mesh—some kind of protection that is wrapped entirely around his jaw that leads itself up to cover his nose. The light from the lamps around the stove give off strange, unworldly metallic sheen to his arms—calls to Beth's eyes, drags them to look at a flicker of light along his hip.

The reflection of a gun.

He has a gun.

A whimper escapes her mouth before she can even back up again. Adrenaline shoots through her legs, and she turns so quickly that she rushes herself back into the wall, missing the doorway out. The sudden clamor of a solid body to a hard surface reactions another squeak. Caught. She slowly lowers herself onto the temperature-less titles. Her entire body flushes bright red and her fingers feel like they're catching fire. She brings her eyes back to the man with a gun.  
 **  
**His eyes have opened. They're blue—frostbitten and pale. They've turned into self-aware slits.

Panic strikes her, squeezing the air from her lungs in a single push. Her eyes close, inevitability trying to block him out. The pins and needles crawl up and down her arms and legs from how hard she's hit the wall. She blinks, barely opening her eyes and in that blink his head has slowly picked itself up. He's turned himself upright. He's so quiet, it only makes Beth astoundingly aware of every movement he's making. Her eyes start to sting as her palms press herself harder against the wall, her diminishing her chances of running. Opportunity is falling away with every beat of her heart.

He's standing fully up now, shoulders turned back and his eyes searching her with a fathomless, unblinking, contemplation. Her eyes are wide. The world is becoming a watery blur. A blur that's still showing her the slowly moving form of a faceless man with a gun.

She blinks, trying senselessly to hold back her fear, but she can't look away from him.

His arm. His left arm.

It's made of  _metal._

She's breathing loudly, nearly uncontrollably. Her mouth is open to make a sound, but she wheezes dryly. It's getting steadily worse. She makes an attempt to cover her lips but she's nearly heaving, gasping for air through the cracks of her fingers.

He's heavy. She can feel the shifting of his weight along the floor. His arms are still at his sides, but they're powerful. The broad bearing of his shoulders throws a shadow over her. Potent. Unsettlingly controlled as he begins to step towards her.

Nails are digging into the drywall. She can shift and feel the thin pieces of it break off inside of her hand. She's shaking, trying to think of something, anything to possibly say.

_Stay away from me,_  she wants to yell—to grind her teeth and screech and blow out the walls between them in an explosion of sudden uncalculated fury and sound, but the weakest of whispers escapes her lungs. She can't get enough air to scream at him. She can only drag herself backwards, trying to carry herself further away—but there's a wall. She keeps forgetting about that fucking wall. Finally, she tries to speak again.

"You're terrifying," she says. Dumbly.

He's so much closer now. She can't move back any further. Her spine is gouging into plaster. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. She knows what she's saying is stupid. She knows what she's saying could be her last, but the words just dribble out of her mouth in an unstable, hoarse plea. She can't hear the music from the sitting room anymore, but all she can think about is the door.

His hand hasn't gone for his belt. He isn't reaching for his gun, and Beth wonders if that's why she isn't dead yet. Maybe that's why the music was so loud before, to try to muffle the unmistakable bang of a shot being fired—but that's too late. It's a pitiful reason to not fire a gun, anyways. Music isn't going to stop him. Nothing could stop him. Nothing but—

She slowly rises up her hands, and for a moment this seems to concern the man before her. The blue of his eyes is cold, blunt, entirely numb, but for half an instant there's a subtle twitch to the corner of his eye—enough to make Beth suddenly blurt out that she doesn't have a gun. She didn't even think about it. About how quickly reaching into her own pockets could get her killed.

Her sudden confession causes the man to halt, and Beth's heart painfully counts out the seconds where he's has not moved. She desperately wishes she could see the rest of his face, could read his expression on his lips. If she could reason with him. But there's black, smoky film around his eyes and he merely stills like a machine. His eyes give away nothing.

Clumsily, she finds herself scraping through the lining of her coat—spilling out papers. Old copper pennies that clack and roll around the linoleum. Her cellphone and Natasha's panic button. She keeps her eyes to him at all times which causes the room feels like it's spinning in slow circles, but he is so unnervingly motionless.

A hand flutters to reach for the button, but she feels paper. She breaks contact to look down, and it rushes to her, fast and unabashedly raw that she is touching a dead man's face. That she, too, will be dead. They'll both be dead. Barnes' permanent smile is haunting, and she wonders if he had any idea what would become of him. Did he just smile anyway in the face of death?

She leans her head back, pulling the paper with her, and thinks about the photographs of those people just so faintly out of her reach, like ghosts. Tears are filling up her eyes, and the masked man's face turns into a blur with piercing eyes. He's started moving towards her again.

She looks at the paper. The words are spilling off the page in tendrils of wet ink. It's broken and torn. She can't read it anymore but she can take in the blue of his eyes. A stirring curl of icy clarity opens up in her stomach.

His eyes.

She holds the paper up instinctively in front of her face, almost like a weapon. The man is so close, he could touch her. He could kill her. But his face is so close, she can compare the lines of his brow, his hidden jaw, his nose, his hairline next to the dead boy's photo. She gasps.

"I know you," she begins hoarsely.

He doesn't answer her. He doesn't _make_ sounds. Beth doesn't even know if he can. It's like he doesn't have lips. Doesn't have a tongue, or teeth, or a mouth to speak with. The expression in his eyes is entirely dead.

_Dead._

"I've—I've seen you."

His dark eyes widen but she knows it's not at what she's saying. He's looking at the button next to her thigh.

"You're Bucky," her voice creaks. "Aren't you?" Her fingers are shaking the page. She's holding it out to him, and, for a horribly painful moment, his hands stop reaching for her. "You're—you're  _here._  I-in this newspaper. You're  _dead."_

There's a twinge of confusion behind his eyes. Beth can see it strike vibrantly along his face. His dark brows pull strongly down. He's before her, fingers inches away from her face—but slowly, he's shifting the strength in his legs down, supporting his powerful body on his haunches. It's so slow to watch him move. Even if he is unsure, even if he doesn't give a damn about what she's saying, he's eerily graceful.

"You're Steve's friend," She manages through trembling lips. She wants to reach for Steve's letter, but her fingers touch a smooth square. Her heart stops. She has to keep talking to him. She has to keep talking to his empty features. She keeps talking because it's that or she'll start screaming, and if she start screaming, she'll start dying. "You're alive."

He starts moving his hand once more—and this time it's made of metal.

She closes her eyes tightly, breathing hitching as she claws at the ground to push her face away but her chin is grabbed and locked tightly. Every finger is plated, flexible, and so much more powerful than a regular man's strength. He could crush her jaw. He could implode her mouth and tear off her skin.

Tears flood over, rolling down her face as she waits.

His skin is pale, amazingly so compared to the thick, black padding of his mask. The lids of his eyes are hollowed with black paint. He calculatingly tilts his head. His eyes narrow into a slow, drawing burn along her face.

He easily moves her face towards him despite every inch for Beth's strength pulling away. It's only this close that Beth can hear his breathing—calm, consistent. If she's said anything at all to persuade him from hurting her, he doesn't show it. The frozen blue of eyes studying her face all over before he breaks away decidedly.

Then, he suddenly brings up his right hand to grasp Beth's arm. The paper is shaking inside of her fist. His eyes flicker to the paper, then back to hers.

_Not yet,_  Beth thinks numbly.  _Don't scream._  She can feel the lukewarm heat from the skin of his strong fingers. He's slowly pushing down on her fingers. He's curling her hand up without a second though, forcing her nails into her own palm, cutting into tender skin.

She pretends that this doesn't hurt. She pretends to be unafraid. She's seconds away from the button. She has to keep going.

"You're Steve's friend. Steve Rogers." She repeats desperately. "He's—he's looking for you."

Then, he speaks.

Her heart drops at what it sounds like. A low growl from the back of his throat.

"Who," he rasps deliberately, with a strenuous voice behind his mask. It feels disconnected from a pale, ghostly face. "the hell is Steve?"

Beth's hand moves instantly to grab the panic button. Her heart rate sky rockets into her head, pounding every second of her still being alive.

The rest happens before Beth has time rest a single finger to the trigger. The fingers of his metal hand zero in on her movements and he's got her pinned. She can't move her arms. She can't get away. She can't breathe.

_You're going to die,_ her heart thuds—each step burning up her throat as she fights to start screaming, but it's hard; her tongue keeps getting in the way and her mouth is trapped into a silent, mystified, terror.

But the distance in those dark blue eyes are emotionless and unforgettable. He doesn't care.

He is going to kill her.

She shrieks, pouring all of the air from her lungs in a single pop.

He's reaching for her neck.  _He's going to strangle me_ , she thinks. She tries to kick away, but it's useless. He doesn't even flinch.

Sweat pouring down from every pore of her body. Inhuman metal fingers are warping her hand with the alarm, but she's shaking so hard inside of his grasp that it's causing a  _tinktinktinktinktintktink_  to bounce off of the scales. He's leaning in towards the paper. The smoky black paint around his eyes allows the blue in them to expand, wide and uncertain. Then, in one swift pull, he's ripping her off the floor, suspended by the socket of her arm—dangling her by her own weight.

Her scream is piercing, ear-shattering at the incredible pulse of breathless agony that shocks her system. She's trying to claw at him, but the stickiness of her fingers grope the black suit of his chest. There's nothing to hold onto. Nothing to stop the pain. Unbearable minutes pass of this before he allows her toes to barely touch the floor for support, but it's only just barely.  
  
The Soldier's eyes watch the SHIELD button, loose and tangled in her mangled fingers, blinking rapidly.

She's sobbing. Her chest heaves relentlessly with the will to crumple to the floor, but he still has her forcibly standing. She's half blind with pain as she tries to trigger the button, but her arm is useless and numb. She isn't even sure if she's holding it anymore. Warm fingers thickly collect her free hand, still trying to weakly scrape across his chest, and captures it. She's caught between the prison of his arms.

He wants the paper. She's trying to open her hands so she can give it to him, but her flesh in trapped inside an iron cage.

Surely, those metal fingers cannot possibly feel the tendon of Beth's right hand slowly, torturously, being  _crushed_. She can feel the distinct bend, shatter, crack of bone, shooting shards of pain into her arms until every nerve is burning end to end—her knees give out as she collapses. Her small, suffocating world is fading to black. She feels lightened when her feet are off the floor again—heavy, cold fingers holding her neck as she feels the back of her skull connect with an unbreakable surface. Again.  _Again_.

The air spinning around her face is hot and angry. She's being lowered down. Her arms are sprawled out as she lies, shallowly gasping, on her side. The paper, trigger, and letter are floating all around her, just beyond her reach. Red is colouring the yellow of her hair, soaking through every layer, spilling across the floor. The strands come undone around her, mingled along the tiles. She can't feel her right shoulder. Her eyes are watery and numb. She can only see the black barriers of his legs. She blinks unsteadily as she watches the pooling of warm liquid sliding out from under her. It's heading for the papers. It's flooding the alarm.

She drags her left arm uselessly, fingertips stretching outwards, coated in blood. The device. It's still on. It's still blinking. She tries to touch it. She needs it. It's important. She made a promise to someone. It's important.

She weakly protests as the man lowers himself to look at her again. She's seen him before and he's absolutely terrifying but this time there is no gun. His eyes are blue. Just like her soldier's.

The music is still going, but it has gotten so much softer now.

_"I know you,"_  she whimpers feebly. She can barely move her lips.

His eyes are cold and listless. They are seeing straight through her. He used to be made of glass. Maybe she's the one made of glass.

Her eyes close heavily. It's all she can do to block out the pain. She doesn't want to see him anymore.

Darkness.

 


	39. Skyfall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa. There was some kind of upload error for "Bruce thinks this is Tony's way of..." sentence. Awkward guys. Forgive me!
> 
> Author's note:
> 
> (special thanks to my new, incredible editor who is saving you guys from me for yet another chapter: TheDreamSmith)
> 
> Wow guys. Just. Wow. Wow. Um. Hi. Hi to absolutely everyone that has favourited, followed, and reviewed. I'm. I'm overwhelmed. We're nearly to 300 reviews. That's HUGE to me. Wow. Just wow. You guys make my life. Seriously. Anyhow, I've set off more smoking guns that I've built up since about chapter two and…Don't worry...darling Beth is next...but for now I've other characters lives to ruin.
> 
> So, everyone, gather your snacks and your drinks and have yourself a nice little sit.
> 
> *thrusts her arms out to her sides like a super villain* LOOK, LOOK AT ALL THIS MOTIF! WATCH IT BURN. BURN IT ALLLLL. MUHAHAHAHAHA!
> 
> Oh.
> 
> God, what did I do to this chapter.
> 
> What did I do.
> 
> WHAT DID I DO.
> 
> In this chapter, Kay takes yet another scene from TWS with a twist of lime.

Chapter 40: Skyfall

* * *

 

"No, no," Tony corrects to the air. "JARVIS, the one you mentioned before. That's the one."

The ceiling whirrs in polite reply. "Of course, sir,"

The proceeding melodic notes of a soft whisper startles Bruce from his chair. A book, held loosely in his fingers, now lays sprawled across his lap. His glasses bounce from his nose, jabbing into a cheek—but that isn't the only welcome of pain. A cramped ache uncurls from the awkward slump of his back, and he slowly pulls himself up to sit straighter, ignoring the fine collection of sweat beaded along his forehead, under his arms, soaked into his socks.

Tony's lab is made of forced, trapped humidity. Bruce is sure of this. He can feel his hair, sticking to the sides of his face. He glances helplessly at the windows as he lounges, leg crossed at the knee, and watches the snow gently whirl itself past the windows. Those could be opened. He could stand up and shift it just an inch to feel the satisfying spray of mist of ice across his face, but instead he leans back against the padding of the chair to relieve the kink in his neck and welcomes in the polarizing gaze of empty eyes.

At night, all of Tony's suits do look a tad unsettling.

It really is not a mystery waking up to only Tony's voice. Thor was spending the night with Jane, and Clint, well that unspoken reason was staring Bruce right in the face. The archer would often squint hard at Bruce, as if unable to tell the doctor just how insane he was to ask for a book to read as he went down into Tony's lab to just sit there and  _read_ , but Clint also wasn't one to say he felt disturbed by much to begin with. However, it only made Bruce feel all the more guilty that Tony was, quite literally, forcing his teammates out of his domain, suit by suit, for his own peace of mind.

_Peace of mind_ , Bruce thinks to himself, dropping a leg to stretch. The phrase was entirely unfitting. A dark, soundless chuckle to the back of his throat. There isn't any peace inside of Tony. Taking it all in through the creeping heat and crawling darkness of his lab, Bruce could only think that Tony's mind seemed to come together in pieces, each shifting, always connecting, but never peaceful.

That being said, Bruce figures Tony shouldn't be there, in whatever consumed part of his mind that he was obviously sinking into now, entirely alone. If someone had to do it…

Besides. Clint had apparently stopped by a Barnes and Noble on the way back from meeting Steve's girlfriend and handed Bruce a white and green plastic bag just before the spy frowned at his mobile, confiding that he had to head out again with a single nod goodbye. Before he left, he turned to Bruce once more in an awkward pause, which wasn't like the archer at all.

Clint keeps his eyes tight to the bag. "Uh. That's a thank you."

"For?"

"For just, uh, you taking care of people. Also, a giant thunderous birdie told me about Tony and Steve's…argument…and I appreciate you staying neutral, being right there to hear it and all. Thor is getting more and more dismayed by this and he usually seems pretty oblivious…so I just figured." Clint stops, shifts his weight from the balls of his feet. Whatever it was he was about say, he very quickly changes his mind. "Jeez. Since this whole thing started… I get Tony's gripe about it, I do, but now that me and Natasha have met the girl I feel like I'm coming around to what Steve sees."

_Neutral. Is that what I am?_  A pull of his shoulders. "What was important in that moment was Steve's wound being cleaned. Speaking of which, I've still heard absolutely nothing from SHIELD's medical bay for analysis reports or vital statistics. I want that data."

"Well I'm heading out there now so I'll see what I can do." Suddenly, an amused expression runs across Clint's serious face. "Now, when you go down there don't just tell Tony I said hello. Tell him that I'm  _suggesting_  the idea of him taking a shower. Just an idea."

That seems to lighten the tight stare of Bruce's eyes. "I need that information, Clint. If Fury thought to contact me I'd certainly explain my concerns for Steve's sudden call for this trip he and Natasha are taking."

"You ever think about contacting them yourself? If you're that concerned, I mean."

A cold chill runs down Bruce's spine. The plastic from the bag crinkles in his grasp. "Fury is aware of Steve's condition by now, between briefings and fittings for the modified suit, I'm sure. But that's the whole question. Why am I the only one concerned?" Bruce's brows tighten. "Just bring me the files, please."

"Yeah," Barton says more quickly than Bruce would've expected. "Isn't that the question." His lips fall back into their usual line. "Enjoy that—and whatever the hell else you two do down there."

Puzzled, Bruce carefully looks through the spaces of the handles of Clint's gift.

A book. Thoughtful of Clint, really. A new book. One of those simple pleasures Bruce himself missed from living in a slew of third world countries for the past eight years, along with actual clean showers—and picked up an original Ian Fleming novel. He wasn't entirely sure why Clint was handing him a James Bond novel of all things; the irony was a little  _too_ syncopated, but Bruce appreciated that he wasn't re-reading his entire Tom Clancy collection for the fifth time since he moved in. In the months before, Clint, with a sly smirk, had already poked enough fun at him for reading spy thrillers in the wake of living with actual spies. But Clancy had been a part of Bruce's life long before he knew about SHIELD, or that British fiction would be a small window into a far too real reality. A nearly unremembered life where Betty's father had given him a box set for Christmas one year, and it was one of the few things that General "Thunderbolt" Ross ever acknowledged Bruce with and that meant…

Bruce sighs, suddenly aware that he's still in Tony's lab. Still miserably hot and tired. He thumbs the page. It  _had_  meant something.

He glances back down only to notice that he barely made it through the opening chapter of Bond reaching his hand into a river full of barracudas. He honestly figured the 007 Agent would have more common sense than that, but thinking back Bruce assesses some hubris and figures he isn't the most ideal to criticize life options. …he flips the cover over in his lap and leans back once more.

The ceiling is faintly lit from the cool, quivering hues of white and blue tapping at the windows. Every time the wind picks up this strongly across the Avenger's tower Bruce almost thinks that the passing movements of streaks could be fragmented bits of starlight, hurtling through the darkness to touch the metal insides of the quiet lab. He knows it could never be—he's stood outside on enough of the tower's balconies to know that he might as well be trapped between two impossible barriers of darkness. The starless night sky above is soiled and murky—an endless maw that drinks in the waning beams of spot lights. Looking down, the city below is an oil painting of dancing, smeared neon and golds mixing into black pavement. He isn't really free here. This isn't India, or Africa. But there are still just as many little girls to con him out of money, if he ever had the nerve to leave.

Despite their distant ambience, Tony's collection of prototype Iron Man suits could be considered an art piece. Cold, metal, flawless in their design. The unforgiving strength of their skin is admirable. Bruce strains to keep his eyes spiraling into the obscurity of the ceiling to study each of them. Some are smaller, thinner, and certainly more agile than his regular suit. One is near impossible to see, even with all of the lights on. The paint is some metal alloy mix that shifts it between shades of camouflage to the barely opaque. The only way to see it coming, Bruce recalled as he had watched Tony digging into the chest piece to change the usual pure glow from white to a dripping, scarlet red, was to see it burning through the dark. Secretive, Bruce thought drily, if unpractically ornate, per Tony's unprecedented calling card; his own code of a SHIELD, perhaps?

Others are larger—bigger than Thor and Clint combined in stature. On the left hand side, with more of a helmet with glowering eyes than a humanoid face, Bruce is pinned by the biggest of the motionless bodies. From carefully observing the give of suspensions in the shoulders of the skeletal structure, Bruce remembers how Tony commented on its ability to hold over 70  _long_   _tons_ —which easily meant it could produce more damage in a single blow than The Other Guy could on a full night of having New York City to himself.

Bruce shudders a blink due to keeping his eyes mesmerized for so long. The snow settles again, and the shadows cast themselves along the floor from the metal bodies encircling the walls, solid and still, falling away to split themselves into more bodies than they actually are.

"Oh, good," Tony almost sounds relieved. It's obvious that he's no longer conspiring with JARVIS, but addressing some blurry movement out of the corner of an eye. "You're up."

From the corner of his eyes, Bruce barely makes out the outline of Tony's figure, seated in his own chair, facing over six monitors. But it's just the shaggy, matted outline of his hair—Bruce wonders if Tony even bothered to confirm that Bruce was actually awake before he announced it. Probably not.

"I think…think I've nearly got this," Tony continues, expectant of the body lounging in the chair to respond accordingly. Bruce presses a hand over his eyes.

"Mmmhm," Bruce replies wearily in their usual call and response. A hand wipes at the lenses of his glasses with a non-damp section of his shirt before setting them back into place.

Tony's shoulders pitch tightly, as if to retort sharply to Bruce's lethargic response, but he gives up half way through the gesture and continues to lean closer to the screen, as if distance was the problem he's battling. "I'm serious, Bruce. You should see this."

"I'm sure," Bruce agrees easily from his chair.

It's hotter than any room in winter should be, distractingly so, and by now he's just aware of the stifling room, of the squeaking of Tony's chair as his legs bounce. He lifts a hand to rub at soreness around his eyes. His glasses are getting tighter somehow. They're leaving harsh round circles into the side of his nose.

He groans softly into a stretch as he goes to stand. It's been this way since about midnight. Bruce doesn't want to know what time it is now. He's nearly nodded off three or four times in his chair, but it's like Tony has eyes in the back of his head, and would prod him to pay attention, but after a while he can only assume that Tony gave up. Tony himself looked a little ragged, but the billionaire was insistent that Bruce be awake for whatever it was he was clicking at and swiping at on his computer screens.

Bruce thinks that this is the way Tony expresses a want for company in the dead of night, and not knowing how to politely ask...in his own dysfunctional way.

He moves inconspicuously to the window and shifts it open just an inch. The cold air sweeps though, mixing with the heat and fogging up the glass. When he makes his way towards Tony he can hear the pop of his own knees. They've been at this for far too long.

"So, you're looking at… Steve's phone calls?" Bruce asks with a clear of his throat. He isn't entirely sure the real reason's Tony's dragged him down here. He's just grown a kind've fondness for when Tony becomes obsessed, even with a subject far beyond Bruce's medical or scientific field. Tony needs someone to talk to, and frankly, Bruce is happy to shoulder that burden if it means Tony'll eventually talk himself into a coma. There's also the fact that Bruce's extremely aware of the previously unmentioned…stress…between Steve and Tony from Clint—and the only way to work out issues like that is to hear both sides.

Even if one side did seem a little…possessed about a missed call that wasn't even his own.

"Right there. You see that?"

Bruce hunches forwards, leaning so hard across the desk that Tony can see the lines along the outside of his palms straining from pink to red. Tony glances over and flicks a light to beam from above them, lighting up their bodies. The silver, patchy grey hair around Bruce's jawline is all the more noticeable, but Tony grins up at Bruce's perplexed countenance. There's a stretch of delineating silence where Tony's excitement grows for it all to unfurl on Bruce.

But Banner heaves a heavy sigh instead. "No. No, I don't."

Tony's hands swat at him to give him room. "Alright, okay, here's the thing. JARVIS caught it as an unrecognized call from Rogers' phone, but the numbers used to make the call aren't actual registered numbers. There's no regulation sequence. Not a one of these numbers could transmit a telephone signal this way. I had JARVIS link those digits into my computer and I've found it looks more like an IP address—but there's the thing: its password protected. But that's not the problem. Assuming it's coming from some poorly regulated SHIELD computer over at HQ, I could blow it open in seconds."

Bruce nods firmly. "Okay. Strange, but I suppose it's possible with SHIELD of all organizations. So it looks like you've gotten it unlocked here. Is there another issue?"

"Yeah." Tony grunts, fingers digging at the earpiece tangled within greasy hair. "I've got it open, but it's…changed.  _Changing_. Actively. I'm getting this whole mess of nonsense. It's obviously some kind of encrypted storage service being maintained by the address, like it's a closed network needed to transmit data. I'm assuming mission coordinates or…or something. But the code…" Tony takes a breath. "The code doesn't make  _any_  sense. I've tried just about all the programming code I know, and I know them  _all._ " A shake of his head. "I've had JARVIS run encryption algorithms, but it's just…utter chaos. There's nothing here but constantly shifting code like the way sand shifts into grooves."

The corner of Bruce's mouth shifts slowly. He can practically count the bloodied veins through the whites of Tony's eyes. Tony blinks hard, so much like a computer himself, needing time to buffer before he continues on with his disjointed ramble: "Like nothing I've ever seen before. Honestly? I'm practically  _swooning_ at the idea that _this_  is what happens when I make a few suggestions to up the ante of SHIELD modules and tech specifications, but… Jesus…"

The digits, points, and symbols across the screen have shifted again into something Bruce actually recognizes from his lone journeys into the third world. Bruce's brown eyes shift firmly to rest on Tony's face. "You're sure there's something about this? Because it looks like basic international area codes right now."

Before Tony can respond, JARVIS's collected whirl descends from the panels. "Pardon my intrusion, Doctor Banner, but Mr. Stark, sir, I seem to have found a kind of image within the data flow. Would you like me to run security scans and allow it to be seen?"

"Huh," Tony shifts his shoulders from their aching hunch and juts the pad of his thumb to tap at his lower lip in interest. "Alright. Proceed."

It's less than five seconds and a single, mild affirmation from JARVIS before a file is dropped into the main monitor of Tony's multi-connected system. He squints hard at the screen. "It's…downloaded, apparently. But I can't—ah, no, there. It's. It's a…paperclip?"

"A paperclip?" Bruce echoes. He corrects the glare from his lenses to get a good look.

Tony's correct. It is exactly the image of a JPEG file of a paperclip.

"Okay," Tony begins weightily, as if it's all coming together, but then his words fall away and Bruce finds himself waiting for the rest of an explanation that isn't there. The physicist clears his throat, and that seems to restart Tony's process. "Okay. I've seen weirder secret icons from SHIELD…but uh, this is new." Tony allows, as if waiting for the viral clip to change into something of interest.

It doesn't.

Tony turns his attention to Bruce for a disquieting moment. The doctor carefully cocks a single brow at Tony's own extraction. "Satisfied?"

Tony huffs in frustration through his nose. "Not even close." He stands, arching his back fluidly before walking towards the window that Bruce had cracked. He heavily grabs the neck of the chair in his grasp before lifting it up and bringing it to sit beside his own. "Take a seat."

With long suffering patience, Bruce gradually sinks into his chair.

Tony braces his elbows to his desk to rub hard circles into his eyes. The thermal patterns that spark behind them have lost their colour—merely clouds of black and grays. With his hands to his eyes, he leans back into his chair where the deep purple from his right wrist coils out from a long sleeve to catch Bruce's eye.

_His body is still rejecting the biochip, no doubt. Possibly infection. Possibly a mild, sensorial attack of his nervous system—_ Bruce forces himself to a stop. He tries fight the question of looking at Tony's blood once again, the processing already being long and grueling enough, but he finds himself all the more anxious just looking at his friend.

"It's been three hours," Tony confesses slowly. "Three hours and…I have no idea what I'm looking at. Three hours ago I didn't even know you could transmit some massive amounts of code into such basic storage units as Steve's phone, especially  _his_ , but it's there." Tony's voice is muffled, but Bruce can see the strain of Tony's vocal cords as he emphasizes his defeat. "Two hours ago I managed to work with JARVIS to hack into SHIELD's password, sort through that chaos. But…now, it's there. I can  _see_ it, I just can't…I can't understand it and that's a problem I've haven't had since I was three."

Bruce rests his arm along the back of Tony's chair, the closest he can possibly manage for offering comfort. "Tony, if there ever was something the matter with whatever you've found, you'd know it. But maybe…" His voice softens. "Maybe it's not anything."

"It is," Tony's hands loosely fall and lightly smack across the keys. The scientist reels back slightly, as if caught off guard by the heaviness of his own limbs. "I know it is."

"How?" Bruce's low voice is a mixture of intrigue and patronizing, and Tony hates that he can hear the distinction in Bruce's tone. There shouldn't be one. It's here, right in front of him, and yet he just can't put a finger on it…

"Because." Tony pauses and he falls back to the only source he's sure of. "Steve doesn't get calls from anyone except us and SHIELD. That's it." His eyes flicker to the sudden solemnity in Bruce's and he turns away. His arm aches raw at the memory of Pepper's own contempt. "I know what you're thinking, Banner. Doesn't change what I've found, and it doesn't make this damn paperclip make any more sense than the Tesseract."

"Well, I could take a look at it," Bruce offers lightly.

"Great." Tony groans again in dramatic exasperation before pushing the wheels of his chair away from the desk. "I'm getting a drink. I'm thinking vodka."

What stops Tony in his tracks is the sudden outburst from Bruce as he reaches the stairs that leads him out of his lab.

"T-Tony," Bruce's usually quiet voice inflects heatedly. To an Avenger's ear, he might as well be  _screaming._  His cheeks lose their colour. "Come back."

The lavish, muti-screen set up of Tony's entire computer operation is wiped clean into a fathomless black slate. For an instant, Tony's heart shutters its timely pulse—his left arm goes numb at the elbow. He swallows a breath through his suddenly opened mouth. A painful twinge in his chest as his brain stalls for an answer, but all he can remind himself of is that he has backup—thousands of them. His entire system is absolutely impenetrable, but here he is, looking at a crash.

"What?" He asks blankly. He turns to look at Bruce by pure instinct, already aware that the physicist wouldn't have a clue on how to help. His mind already churning for options.

"JARVIS," Tony orders sternly, "Shut down all incoming services links and messages. I want everything recently opened entirely deleted. I don't care how important it is, I just want this mess off of my screen now."

Bruce can feel the fine churn of motors and gears suddenly whirling to life inside of the ceiling, but there isn't a response.

"JARVIS?" Tony presses again. There's a whisper of a command trying to be carried out, but all at once the lights flicker in the ceiling and Tony's lab seems to sag. The once stifling heat from the churn of active thick cable wires and incessantly moving machinery slowly clack to undefined halts. The left open window rushes in the streams of snow blown air, and suddenly Bruce is uncomfortably cold.

"The crash can't get into JARVIS", Tony explains to Bruce quickly—too quickly. Tony's voice is at terminal velocity, a shutter of sound that Bruce can't keep up with. "He's not even  _installed_  into the same frame—that would require the  _physical_  jump of data banks and—"

Both men slightly flinch as the screen flashes. A bright hue of oversaturated squares of primary colours turn like square alternating tiles from an old broken, untuned television. Then it hisses and fades to black again, trailing behind the faint shape of letters over the screen.

MR…AN…TH..O..NY… ST..AR..K. __  
  
Tony's dark eyes trim themselves to pinpoints. His hands are motionless over the keys, but he tediously presses his thumb into the enter key. Suddenly, the text disappears and slowly new words are falling.

AH. …YOU… ARE…READING THIS… _  
_  
The instant typing of keys. Bruce is instantly on his feet, trying to move a hand to touch at Tony's shoulder but stops centimeters away. The words still in his mouth to say _"Don't—"_  but it's far, far too late. Tony types as quickly as other men perform in Olympic sprinting competitions.

[Who is this?]

CURIOUS…BOY. __  
  
[What is this? What the hell is going on? You're hacking into a private connection. This is being recorded. You will be arrested.]

OF COURSE…YOU ARE ALWAYS WATCHING…LIKE…FATHER…LIKE SON…BUT …YOU HAVE…PICKED THE WRONG LINE…THIS IS….NOT MEANT FOR YOU…BUT…YOU HAVE AL…WAYS BEEN IN…SISTANT. _  
_  
 _"What?"_  Tony balks. Bruce's fingers fall as well, resting on the back of the chair as he watches a thin coat of perspiration slide down Tony's temples. He pales. Fingers are still poised over the keys, but he doesn't move to respond. The text keeps going on.

THERE. I HAVE ESTABLISHED MYSELF NICELY INTO YOUR NETWORK. THERE WILL BE NO FURTHER ROOM FOR ERROR.

The billionaire pulls back his hands as if stung. Through the length of his fingers, Bruce can feel Tony's entire body  _shudder._

I SEE THAT YOU ARE SPEECHLESS. YOU FLATTER ME. I EXPECTED TO WORK HARDER TO EARN THAT FROM THE OFFSPRING OF HOWARD STARK.

"It's a threat," Tony states, ignoring the sudden high ringing his ears over the mention of his father from brutal, anonymous text along his screens. "Some kind of broadcast or some insane, Fury crafted super-virus that I get personally for unlocking his calls, but it's definitely a threat."

"A threat?" Bruce murmurs breathlessly as the notices the hovering monitors and holograms in Tony's lab stirs to life—continuing the intruder's words.

AND NO, MR. STARK. YOU CANNOT THREATEN ME. YOU CANNOT KILL ME.

"It can hear us? It's…it's central sound of the building?" Bruce's lips barely move, a breath of a whisper. "Tony, I—"

"JARVIS!" Bruce is cut off as Tony snaps the command forcefully, face to the ceiling. "OVERRIDE:  _MARIA STARK—"_  
  
Suddenly, the bodiless servant roars to life; Tony's entire lab is brilliantly lit from the dim in a deep, uncontrollable power surge. Both men flinch as tiny, beautiful sparks rain down into their hair. Bruce reflectively cranes his neck up to stare into the darkly organized shelves that carefully exhibit each of Tony's suits. Possibly every one he's ever made. The air smells of smoke.

YOU HAVE GIVEN ME SO MUCH TO CHOOSE FROM.

Tony's face drains, but his eyes steel maddeningly as if he's trying to melt the words with the power of his own anger.

This is an invasion of his baby, so close to the Arc Reactor in his chest that can feel another panic attack rising—and the unacceptable part is that this time it is justified. And he never wanted them to be justified—those were just glitches, errors, pieces of himself that he needed time to pull out of his body and examine but he just  _never had the time._ His mind instantly remembers Pepper, the weight of her body on his lap, her smell.  _There's still time._  He shakes his head, tossing away the words creeping into the charts running up and down behind his eyes. She's away. She's not here. And there is still time. _  
_  
The layer of an equation to dismantle his entire tower is peeled away to reveal paranoia _: SHIELD doing this? Impossible. Fury, alone? Not certain, but not implausible. How?_  Weeks, months, years of protecting his entire life away from the slightest possibility of someone, (admittedly, ever since the Chitauri) something that could crawl under his skin and—

Slowly, the billionaire drags his fingertips across the keys as wide, mirthless eyes roll upwards towards the ceiling. Towards the encircling tower of Iron Man suits hanging above them. His other suits, lined up like softly glinting, deaden knights along the circle of his lab. They're humming, rattling their joints. They're turning  _on._

"Bruce," Tony says rigidly.

He slowly lowers his eyes. It's the only motion he's comfortable making.

His eyes don't leave the screen, but Bruce can feel how that single word is conveying hundreds of meanings all at once; Ripping the raw, thinly withheld power play of Tony's usual sarcasm between them into absolute  _terror_. An acid eating away rusty metal for a glinting, cutting material underneath.

"Tony." Bruce answers, mouth barely opening as he gaps at 42 heavily armored tanks churning to life.

The deadened expression of each golden mask flickers like a heartbeat, so much like if Tony were inside—but every socket is watching them with devoid eyes. Whatever is in Tony's computer…it's taking over. The room is starting to heat up again. Every hair on Bruce's body is standing on end from the flux of electrically being fed into such powerful machines. He feels his heart picking up speed. It's reaching his ears, hollowing out his own tone. There's an uncomfortable pain at the base of his neck. He pretends it's not there. Not as he sees Tony immediately fly into action, hands blindly fast across his keys.

_This is impossible_ , Tony scrambles along the keys—halfway falling out his chair to pull himself under his desk. He's grabbing for thick, heavy cords to shut down manually. He can see the arrangements of statistics firing just as quick as the asymptotes in his own brain can register it.

Then it hits him. He's too  _slow_   _(and isn't that how it always breaks down around him? That unspoken truth that he is too slow, too old, too damaged?)._  He breaks free a few power cords to shut down the top, but on his knees, spine touching the roof of his desk, he suddenly feels trapped again, like he's in a deep, sand covered cave. He hauls himself back up, bracing his arms across the keys until buttons are broken in place from his weight. Pulling the plug now won't stop his suits from lighting up. It's inside of his entire building and nothing will shut down. He's losing control when seconds ago _everything was fine.  
_  
"You can't ignite a dead source!" Tony half-way yells, half-way commands—his voice a dying echo. The black of his eyes is coloured rage. "They're off because half aren't even charged. Half don't even have proper transmission to JARVIS. There's no way,  _no God damn way_  that this is the work of a single computer—it would mean a team, half-way across the world, working in exact unison to attach every outlet into—This  _is_ —"

"This is impossible unless it's a live source." Bruce breaks in, the brown of his eyes turning darkly to take in the rest of the room. "I've spent enough time in here to understand that you have splittered source ends—but look at the screens, the holograms, Tony—it's  _massive_ —it's literally jumping from equipment to equipment."

Tony hisses between clenched teeth. "Almost like JARVIS's own AI except—"

Tony's words are lost in the sudden din.

Almost at the mention of his name, JARVIS roars to life again, but the sound is an ear-piercing  _screech_  of static, as if the invisible, loyal AI that made up half of Tony's mind, half of Tony's oldest friend, was screaming in pain. It's enough to bring both men practically to their knees.

The lights sputter; All of the screens in Tony's lab are fluttering in a death throw; seizures of electric blood and metal skeletons. And then they stop.

From the ceiling, a slight crackle is heard before a voice speaks. It is soft and patient. Familiar yet foreign—but every word makes the heads of Tony's Mark I – Mark XLII shift and nod like puppets on invisible strings. Bruce's stomach twists. The room's humidity only grows heavier.

"You are only partially correct, Mister Stark. My name is Arnim Zola. I am not alive, but I, indeed, have a body." The voice pauses and Tony watches as suddenly, in the darkness, all of the suits start glowing a blinding white—and all the heads are staring at him. " In fact you have given me many bodies. However, we will not meet as your father and I once did. We cannot ever meet."

Tony's mouth runs dry. 42 dark creations are staring at him, equally a piece of him and equally strangers. The Arc Reactor feels like it's digging deeper into his chest, and his lungs compress. He means to cry out in anger, but his voice falters. "How did you do this? Who are you?"

The static rises and fades. "I am afraid I have nothing to explain to you, Mister Stark. It is as I said: this message is not for you. You decided that it was."

"Stop," Tony manages. He slowly raises himself from his knees, but those eyes do not blink. "You obviously know who I am, but I'll tell you again for a generous, final warning: These suits are not Iron Man. I am. I just created the suit. You may have them, but I can unmake them just as easily. You don't steal from Stark Industries. You don't steal from  _me."_

"Mister Stark, I am struck with how uncannily arrogance runs in your family line. You make it seem as if I am here for you." The static builds, and slowly Zola pronounces his next statement so that it is loud and clear: "You are a miscalculation in a much bigger authority. I am simply adapting to all that your AI has given to me. There is nothing about you that I did not already expect."

_Nothing to do with me and Bruce, but he's going to kill us anyways. Right._  
  
"Fine," Tony says briskly, disregarding the voice's drop of his father, of his pride. "Let's not talk about me anymore."

He pulls back from the desk and kicks the chair—toppling itself over with smash as the glass from his screens shatter. The sound is so sudden, so like a weapon being fired, that Bruce backs up. Tony hopes that's over dramatic enough to keep the AI's attention—ridiculous enough to make Bruce keep his own back to the wall. Maybe once Bruce hits the stairs he'll run. He turns ever so slightly to look behind him, and his eyes look wild and desperate, a flash of a single moment of concern:  _Move Banner. This is where you leave,_  before he looks back at his suits.

"What did you say your name was again? Zola? Okay, Zola. Let's talk about Steve Rogers. Fury sent him out, so I can only assume this is some kind of SHIELD alarm or code or general, miscommunicated bullshit. Did he not like my version of espionage? Now he's taking away my toys because I'm being bad?"

"You are very much like your father, Mister Stark. Your father died because he became too curious. So it is true. Like father, like son. I have no data to commit to you as none of this is of the original procedures, however, I helped with the problem that became Howard Stark. I do not believe I will allow you to become a problem. I think it fitting that you will die as your father did. An accident of his own intentions."

His arms hurt from what should have been the effortless act of pulling a chair, but a thirsty burn is ravaging through his veins.  _An accident?_  ( _He's 19, and_ _Obadiah_ _is putting a hand on his shoulder as he is told about the car crash_ ;  _Terrible, unsurmountable, nothing to be done.)  
_  
"What the  _hell_  are you—"

Suddenly, holograms are flooding Tony's field of version—with nothing but an endless succession of four words:

_LIKE FATHER, LIKE SON._

_And he can see a_ face _—ghastly and old— and pictures of his mother and father and a car going too fast and too far and—_  
  
The entire lab is filled with darkness—and suddenly the air is filled with exhaust and bright, empty eyes. Before Tony has time to react, a powerful hand grasps his arm and forces him backwards. In unison, all of the hands from the suits rise up as if saluting—and a brilliant, white beam scorches the floor right where Tony had been standing.

Taking the stairs backwards is a lot harder than the billionaire had imagined—and he's navigated the beams of sky scraper construction sites black out drunk before— but Bruce isn't letting up.

"Compromised," is all Bruce manages over his shoulder and he throws open door after door, knuckles turning white from digging into the back of Tony's shirt. His nails are nearly ripping out the seams.

"Zola?" Tony whispers absently, the name practically drowned out from deep, resonating blast of machinery being torn apart a floor below their spiriting legs. "I've never heard of him. Not from dad, not from SHIELD, certainly not from Steve."

Bruce lets go. "Something tells me Steve isn't going to know much about this, either."

Tony's laughter is sharp, slightly off in the shadows from the windows rushing across his face, disorienting seconds of visibility before Bruce can't see him anymore. "Yeah, I know that, but I'd still pay good money to have Steve even  _pretend_  to explain this."

The impacts are getting heavier. The windows along the bay views of interlocking conference are starting to crack. They're sprinting through the empty hallways

Bruce grasps for some light, but the kitchen is dead. The living room is silent as well. There's a sigh between clenched teeth. "The power's cut. Of course. I don't own a cellphone. We have to get a hold of Clint or—if we could get Thor to channel his power through the wirework of the building I'm sure it'd be enough to destroy the inhabiting virus—he's with Jane, isn't he?"

"And the rest of my suits?" Tony asks dryly, because the answer isn't going to be nearly as simple. "Zola has those, Bruce. And—and I don't even think he's a virus."

The shock across Bruce's face is harsh. Tony can't even remember the last time he could register such an open emotion across Bruce's face without some dire consequences. "This is—he," a grimace, " _it_  has to be, Tony."

"I saw a face in those holograms." Tony confesses quickly, his lips a blur. "I know it's the consensus that everyone all agrees that I'm edging towards some degree of insanity, but I  _know_ what I  _saw."_

Bruce doesn't have time to argue—at that instant the floor beneath their feet cracks and splinters apart—concrete and drywall powder plumes the air from four sides at once. The windows are imploded from the outside in—and the howling, growl of the wind drags at their newly exposed bodies like cold, piercing claws. Through the ash, Tony can trace the faintest outline of perfect repulse beams through panes, the ceiling, the now gushing water pipes flooding into the living room. Gazing upwards, he can't tell where the sky meets the roof of the tower. It's a blur. The sky is falling apart. The world rips apart in an explosion of orange; a force so powerful that it lifts both men off of their feet and heaves them backwards onto the ruined smolders of damp carpet.

The world goes silent.

Face first into the chaos, Tony thinks he's drowning in the deafening noise until he pushes back, sputtering and gasping for air.

Bruce is somehow beside him on his back, covered in ashes and smoke. Tony watches silently as Bruce moves to right himself again, but that's when Tony sees it. A single, rapid pulse of red hovering patiently against the smoke of a starless sky.

_"No—!"_  Tony roars, but it's far too late.

Seconds of senseless direction—vertical, horizontal, falling, spinning, burning—and he's rolled into another wall. The impact crushes ribs, bends legs—but the  _pain._  The pain keeps Tony awake.

This is happening. This is real.

He blinks slowly and behind his eye lids he can see the gathering of his suits speeding towards his limp body—but he forces himself to move, to look up. Behind the swirls of wind and snow, he can catch the silver outlines of bodies flying through the air, golden and black, red and blue, firing off white beams and flamethrowers like the most violent display of fireworks ever unleashed. Each one keeps circling around the outside of the tower, crashing straight through once more.

Suddenly, something heavy locks around his ankle to drags him under the counter of what used to be a kitchen island. He'd scream if he had enough air, but it hurts to try. But the hand quickly lets go, and suddenly he's being pulled up to sit properly.

"Tony!" The rooms are like caverns now. Dark, misty, full of spraying water. Walls are missing and some are standing. Doors smashed through. And humming. The air is  _humming._  "Look at me." Warm fingers grasp the back of Tony's neck, and he doesn't have a choice but to look at the draining, bruised face of Bruce. "You're bleeding. Your—your chest."

Tony looks down. The blue light of his Arc Reactor is suddenly purple. And it's expanding. He can feel a damp warmth seeping into the waist of his jeans.

"I think that's more of your colour than mine," Tony rasps. "And you don't look so handsome yourself."

Bruce's voice is panicking. Honest to God, he's watching Banner  _panic_. "Is it the reactor? Is it damaged?"

"No," Tony hisses just to touch at the shredding of his skin, shifting to rip up bits of dried blood from his shirt to inspect the damage. "That's just being over forty for you."

Bruce frowns at him, nearly glowering. His jaw sets somewhere between remaining calm or shouting. He somehow manages to do something in between. Bruce's hands moves to touch at glasses that aren't there anymore. He covers his eyes instead, fingers digging into the skin. "I can barely see anything Tony, but I swear to God, if you're lying to me."

Tony sucks in a breath as he attempts to hold his chest piece into place. It's just a little loose. It's not life threatening. For now. In fact, Tony's nearly impressed with himself for holding up so well against a full frontal blow from Mark XVI. "I'll make it. Sneaky wasn't made for long range combat anyways."

Bruce cranes to take in as much as he can—but they're so exposed between water and crumbling floors at sky scraper level. "Is there any place safe from these machines? Any place at all until we can make it to the stair well?"

Gripping the counter, Tony gets to his feet to answer. Thankfully, the world is stable again. Bruce slowly rises as well. "Well, I can only think of one. But you're not going to like— _shit!_ "

"What?" Bruce gasps between ragging breaths, but Tony throws out his arms to force their bodies low as the red, hovering beam from Tony's darkest suit passes by a gouged window.

Bruce can feel the blood from Tony's chest wash over his own shirt, and decides that he doesn't even want to know what terrible, lethal weapons Tony's packed into that one. It reminds him far too much of black Hellicarriers and thin, tiny circles being pressed into the center of his forehead. He represses a shudder.

"Okay." Tony's eyes dash to Bruce's. They are full blown into two dark moons. "We've got 30 seconds."

* * *

It is as if Avenger's Tower is suffering through a flash flood, earthquake and a volcano eruption all at once. The air is cold from the snow. The pipes are flooding through the windows. The metals in the walls are glowing, the main support structures are shaking. Clinging through the dark, Bruce tracks Tony only by his quiet, repressed gasps of pain.

He nearly runs into Tony's back when the billionaire suddenly stops. More red lights. More white eyes zooming overhead. Golden masks and blazing thrusters. Shadowy, dense bodies slicing apart the night.

"Why'd you stop?" Bruce whispers heatedly, used to moving during an assault and  _never_ stopping.

"What? Not impressed, Banner?" Tony jests through his teeth. He moves once more until they are sprinting. They can put three doors between them, if they're lucky, but minus about sixteen seconds and two of those doors won't exist anymore. The lights above them rattle, some of them pop and shatter.

"I'm floored," Bruce pants, suddenly changing direction the barest of taps on Tony's arm to tell him. "You're a creative son of a bitch," Bruce retorts, pounding the keys to another airtight door.

"Don't bother," Tony calls over the din. "Stop locking the doors. The idea was distance, not barriers."

"What do you mean?"

"Because. There's this suit." A biting stall. "I mean, technically any one of them could kill us, possibly, but in this close of quarters, I'm expecting Heartbreaker."

"You named one of your suits  _"Heartbreaker"_?"

"Hey, you were down there with me for most of my suits being built and I didn't hear you offer up any gems for nicknames. I think I conceived, blue-printed and crafted it while on a Pat Benatar binge, if I recall correctly. But I also was on a martini binge, so…you know what? Don't worry about the name. It'll kill us just fine."

"F—" Bruce begins but a giant hole of light blasts straight through the elevator's lift, igniting it into flames and sending it hurtling down flight after flight. Something huge is clawing itself up the shaft. They both turned back, stunned by the drop.

"That." Tony announces. "Looks like Heartbreaker's Arc beam."

They can't stop moving. Bruce glances backwards, and muscle memory pulls him through. "In case of fire, you take the stairs." Bruce recites grudgingly. His body is wondering, half blind, through the dark but Tony steps in to stop him.

"Bruce. Elevator's out, and they'll collapse the levels on us if we take the stairs." He pauses again, one hand presses to his chest, his lungs aching with every exhausted breath, and flexes his shoulders forward. "He's going to collapse the building floor by floor. We'll never make it out in time. See, this is the part I said you wouldn't like."

They're facing two broken giant bay windows.

"Tony," Bruce's entire body steels. He takes a step back. Away from Tony. Away from the unspoken words. Tony turns and motions back for him, almost casually, but Bruce's reaction is made of adrenaline as he pushes Tony's arm away—hard—but for some reason, the movement changes. His fingers grip into his friend's arm. "Not the window."

Tony doesn't even blink at the growing vice of Bruce's fingers. "Has to be the window."

Bruce's eyes are huge in the flames against the falling snow. It's dappled in his hair, sticking to the dark, formless purple shirt sleeves. "Tony. You don't know what you're asking of me right now."

"Oh, yes I do." Quickly, Tony brings up his free arm and shoves the thin long sleeve of his bloodied shirt into his mouth. It tears easily along the stitching, heaving itself apart until Tony's entire forearm is exposed in the elements; the stinging, cold wind from high above, the sweltering smoke below.

"I'm asking you to trust me, right now, as Bruce Banner." Tony says carefully, enunciating deliberately between a mouth full of cloth. "That's all I want."

The dark brown in Bruce's eyes shift painfully as he carefully studies Tony's face. He looks like he's turned to flesh coloured ice in the darkness. The dark purple of Tony's light is only getting darker. There isn't much time.

Desperately, Tony tries to cover more ground. "You caught me once. I figure it's about damn time I return the favour."

Despite the distortion of Tony's home, Bruce watches as New York City continues to move beneath them. Stories below. A whole entire universe below. He inhales deeply and is nearly transported to the balcony again, two nights before, where the air tasted of cigarettes and Tony had come outside to stand in the freezing cold for no other reason than to make sure that he wasn't alone.

Clinging to the memory, Bruce speaks. "They can't kill me, Tony. Being crushed…it won't matter. I'd rather be buried. Maybe that'll actually stop—you go—if I hit the ground—I'm—The Other Guy'll—there are  _people_  down there, Tony, I can't—"

"You caught me." Tony repeats steadily. "And I'm not going to leave you here. So I trust both sides of you. See, I've just lost every suit I've ever made to an AI that has taken down years of  _my_  security. I don't know what he did to JARVIS, and I don't quite understand everything that's happening right now—Hell, I  _know_  I'm completely out of my element. But really, the only question now is… do you trust both sides of me?"

_Trust._

Someone is asking Bruce for his trust, and not the other way around. He isn't begging someone not to shoot. He isn't pleading not be tortured for another endless day. He's being asked. He's being seen as a person. Not a monster. Trust. That's a word Bruce hasn't heard in a very long time. He sighs wearily. A hand rubs at his bruised temple.

Of all the inexplicable things he's ever thought or seen about Tony Stark, he's never once doubted he was Iron Man. He finally understands what Tony is about to do.

"Tony…the only thing I question about you is the cloth. Why the cloth?"

"Oh," Tony smiles smugly around the piece between his teeth and his tongue. "That's for dramatic effect. You needed time to answer. And you answered right."

_"Tony."_

"Okay, whatever,  _fine_ ," Tony allows snippily, his voice suddenly embarrassed. "It's because this is going to hurt. A lot. And I need my tongue. That's, like, the third most important part of me ."

An arm thrusts out, fingers squeezing into his palm—and for a moment, nothing happens.

For a half a second, Bruce nearly decides to starts to dragging them to the stairs—but that's when Tony  _jumps._  Although Bruce could let go. Although he could pull away, connected only by his fingertips, Bruce falls with him.

Grey snowflakes collect against their bodies as they plummet, each one like a cold, chilling flicker of pain to remind them that they are free falling. Tony tries again, his palms reaching out into the air, but they're just two fully grown men hurtling to the New York City pavement.

Nothing is happening.

Bruce tries to scream. He wants to scream, but every part of him is a vice that's squeezing itself, compacting together, refusing to let go. He isn't sure if he even knows how to scream anymore.

Tony's entire body shudders, buffeted by the wind, but his veins are starting to warm up like a drug high. He pictures it there, waiting for him. Someplace between the fire and dust where Zola couldn't reach. He curls his fingers harder into himself, but the pain is blinding—connecting into his spine, rattling through every vertebra as if he's cutting himself in half. He can already taste the metallic buildup of blood between clenched teeth, but he forces his body to expand—legs open, arms outwards—he keeps his eyes open. Cars are taking defined shapes, no longer dots in a line. His entire body is  _throbbing_ —joints are twisting and revolting under his skin—he's wrestling his own will not to black out. He holds on to the idea of Pepper, safe and so far away from him as he falls.

He pictures her green eyes in the dawn light. He pictures her laughing, her hair undone around her shoulders, freckled and beautiful.

_There's still time._

That's when he feels it; the terrible, scalding burn of metal being torn through the air to smash into a kneecap. It's a little too tight as it gashes into his leg, but it'll have to do. Another connects up his right leg. Soon his arms are being structured, encased for balance. The suit is being called, flying through the air, bursting out of windows to catch around his waist and neck. Soon his face is encased in black only to open up into the familiar patterns of red charts that track his eye movement. When his chest piece seals around his wound, he swears he's untouchable.

They're still falling, faster and faster, but Tony turns to grasp Bruce's weight as they spin out and over buildings and into Central Park. Trees snap at them with bare fingers in want of breaking bones. Snow and ice. Not the most gracious of landings, but it isn't sidewalk. He closes his eyes, twists back around to absorbs the blow of smashing into harden snow.

When Tony's eyes open next, he's facing the clear night air. Alive.

Tony nearly yelps to see another body standing over him. Bruce. Good. Bruce is alive, too. He studies his face silently, still unsure what to say (and the whole mash of torn cloth in his cheeks isn't helping) but Bruce doesn't turn to look at him. He couldn't. His eyes are transfixed to the frozen ground. _  
_  
There's green in a complete, tinted circle around the cracking brown in Bruce's eyes. His veins are throbbing, visible and thick along his neck and cheeks. The physicist leans over, almost as if he's about to vomit, and chokes back something pulling at his vocal cords: words. But it's a language no one could possibly make out. Bruce rattles his lungs again with coughs, spitting darkly onto the pavement, and shudders.

Tony can see the way the ridges of his spine are shrinking, pulling themselves together to fit inside his normal build. Every word is a heaving, breathless pant. "You. Didn't. Know. That'd save. Us."

Addressed, Tony slowly pulls himself up with a wince. His Iron Man suit was whole in the air, but upon landing he finds himself exposed again with a torn sleeves and singed jeans. Red and gold pieces liter the surrounding crash zone. He carefully pulls the cloth from his mouth, swallowing thinly to taste all the sour adrenaline coursing through him.

"Nope," Tony admits shakily. "But I figured that it was time for a test run."

Bruce steadies himself, continuing to breathe through his mouth. His eyes flicker to Tony's angrily, but it cools as he watches the dark, circular stain of Tony's chest start to dim. The coils of his black hair are clinging to his cheekbones with sweat. Bruce watches his eyes define themselves sharply in the flickering lights of passing traffic, but they don't contract accordingly.  _Shock_ , Bruce recognizes instantly.  _He's fighting off shock._

The pain is damn near palpable across Tony's body. There's thin, lingering black lines eating into Tony's veins, brought to the surface of nearly every inch of him. He is completely drained. The dark shadows fill in the stress of his jaw, under his eyes. Bruce can only imagine the amount of stamina it had to have taken, much less the sheer strain of focus, to autoneurally signal something to catch you as you fall.

Sighing, Bruce sits beside him. "The results?"

"Needs s'work." Tony slurs tiredly. The snow suddenly is the best damn thing to every bruise ever made.

Tony hears Bruce let out a trade mark half-chuckle. "At least they're not chasing us now."

Bruce only speaks again when he sees Tony's lids start to drift closed. "Tony, I can't see. Look at them. Where are they going? They're not sticking around here. Not attacking civilians."

Tony lifts his head ever so slightly. "Natasha and Steve's flight—it'd still be airborne. The "call" was meant for Rogers. My first guess would be there. But to get to them quickly requires getting to Fury. Thor. Barton."

Bruce stands and reaches out a hand. "We can't guess anymore. Come on. Up. You've gotta look."

Seeing it from afar, Tony isn't sure how Stark Tower is still standing. The windows are blown out. Huge shattered panes of glass colliding and smashing into the streets below. Tony can hear the constant, steady stream of honking horns and the scrabble of traffic lost in the confusion. From the outside, the windows are the only give away that anything is wrong. And, he supposes, the damage to the inner walls and ceilings, but that's impossible to see without being inside.

Inside.

Inside Tony can feel every collapsing wall and torn apart room as his home is laid into. His parents' possessions. His dad's liquor cabinets. His mother's paintings. Everything was burning. Everything was being crushed by carefully crafted, lovingly set inhuman fingers made by his own hands.

_I think you shall die as your father did._

He's shaking. Tony Stark is honest to God  _trembling._  He feels himself sinking into the snow as his knees are suddenly inadequate for holding him up.

"Tony," A firm hand pulls him up by the sleeve of his shirt. Bruce. That's right. Banner is here with him. "You're okay. It's alright."

His dark eyes flicker back and forth, drinking in the greying lines of Bruce's frowning, concerned face. He creates a lie. He's good at that. This isn't about his parents and Zola and an unexplained car accident. It's about his suits rampaging across America—stolen away from him. It's about him being right; his stupid, selfish need to be right all the damn time, and how this is all  _his fault._  It's painful on his tongue—or maybe he had just dug his teeth into his mouth so far past the cloth that he's swallowing down blood. He isn't sure why he's so surprised. The taste of blood never changes.

"No, no," He protests weakly. "I—I—I can't call Pepper. I can't tell her not come back to the Tower. She has to go California. …I have to tell her—I…" He swallows roughly. "She's…she…she's lost more than 12 percent of her baby."

"Tony," Bruce explains heavily, but his tone is gentle and slow. "I've been without a cellphone for a long time. There are other ways to deliver a message."

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: YOU JUST COULDN'T LEAVE IT ALONE, COULD YOU TONY? SEE. THIS IS WHY WE CAN'T HAVE NICE FEELINGS. YOU HAVE TO GO AND GET EVERYONE ALL UPSET. LOOK AT BRUCE. LOOK AT HIM. HE IS SO 100 PERCENT DONE WITH YOU. 100 PERCENT, TONY.
> 
> God, Pepper is going to murder you with a fork.
> 
> AN#2:
> 
> Please, if anyone would like, let me know what you think. It just. It just means SO much. It truly does. It just means...everything. I'm sending out thank you notes right as I publish this. c:


	40. Cognitive Dissonance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited 5/23/014 1/21 AN: Youuuuuu guys. Yoooouu guys. Wow. Just. Wow. Not only did we get over 300 reviews but I just. I am so completely humbled and floored. This means so much to me. I promise I'm doing my best to not actively push for reviews…but wow….I called and you guys hella answered. Thank you. Thank you so very much.
> 
> Now, this chapter is a bit shorter than my usual (and by "a bit shorter" I actually mean average chapter length…heh), merely because it's a bit of set up for other bits (sorry!) but it is also the last of Kay's twisty TWS scenes. I'm sorry to say that I just had to cut this chapter in half or else one of these two characters would be short changed… The other part will be out quickly. Speaking of character development, afterwards let's talk about Bucky, eh? See End Chapter Notes For Details…
> 
> So let's see…I blew up Stark Tower. Mhmm. I had Beth horribly attacked by The Winter Soldier. Oh yeah. That was uh, that was a thing. Annnnddd I had Zola take over all of Tony's suits. Well damn.
> 
> What terror can I inflict next...

Chapter 41: Cognitive Dissonance

* * *

[IN COMING TEXT MESSAGE FROM **:**  DATACODE COULD NOT BE FOUND]  
[SUBJECT: FWD: FWD: TEXTS TO STEVE ROGERS PERSONAL MOBILE]  
[TO: NICK FURY]  
 __  
I really love your apartment, Steve! The kitchen is stunning. So modern!  
When we move in together…and I decided to redecorate it, what do you think of the colour red?

_OXOXO_

[Sent 4:47 am]

* * *

"Has he seen it?"

"What was that, sir?"

"I said, has he  _seen_  it yet?"

"No, sir." Jasper Sitwell adjusts his tie until it cinches to the hollow of his throat. "Not yet."

"Hm-hmm," Alexander Pierce slowly turns a bloodstained cellphone in a small circle along dark wood of his desk. It's dry by now. There's no fear for an unsightly stain. He could easily summon Renata to clean it without a second thought. She's thoughtful and quick. Good help. "You know, that's what I love about the 21st century. There isn't a  _second_  of your life where someone can't call you out for ignoring them. What could possibly be keeping my old friend's attention away from a text message of all things? He responds so quickly when I text him."

Sitwell doesn't answer at first. He gives a soft, nervous clear of his throat. "I'm going to check back at HQ to see to that reason myself."

Pierce leans back in his leather chair to rest his neck. His home office suddenly feels so empty, regardless of how much fashionable furniture and classics books stuffed inside. "You're a smart man, Sitwell. All we know so far is that Fury lied, which isn't above him, but for him to lie to  _me?"_  Pierce's thin mouth tsks at draping of moonlight through the Tiffany Glass along his parlor windows. "Fury didn't deliver. We don't deliver. I think he'll understand the intent."

"And the Agent, sir?" Sitwell asks quietly. "HYDRA doesn't take prisoners, but to take her?"

"That woman was a distraction, no doubt, but I've found there's something deliberately placed about her...letters, papers. This cellphone. However, my recent conversations with Fury could state otherwise. He practically  _handed_  me the location of Rogers. Romanoff was instructed to be at his apartment to receive him..and yet the girl arrives. Before I go seeking out Rogers myself, I've decided to see what Fury says to my message. He likes to play ball."

"Certainly, sir."

"Good. I've sent my old friend the rest of their texts although there aren't very many. Nothing to write home about. If this is Fury's work… it looks almost heartfelt. But I've known Fury for too long and too bitterly to think he wouldn't try to play with my poor, old feelings this way. To use peoples' emotions for a push. He saved my  _daughter_ , for God's sake. Always keeps me guessing…" He smiles sadly. "I'm going to miss him, Sitwell. When this is all over. Honestly. I think I will."

Sitwell carefully adjusts his glasses back over his nose. He can see the faces of his co-workers at the Triskelion laughing, joking, smiling, swirling along the lenses like a bent refraction of  _what_   _could have been._  
  
"I'm going to miss this, too, sir."

Pierce taps at the screen of the phone once more. "There is a picture on here of Rogers." Another calculating smirk. "If this is Fury's doing…it's thorough. Lord, it's  _thorough."_

"If you think she is worth the interrogation, sir." Sitwell says offhandedly. "But that message. It seems a little…abstract."

Pierce chuckles. "No, no Sitwell. When you get to know someone well, you get a buncha of these inside jokes. It's very clear."

Sitwell allows a small sound of consideration as he dials.

"Fabricated or not, this Agent simply had too much evidence recovered by Rumlow's authority to execute at the scene. Particularly if these articles were placed by Fury himself. Besides, she even tried  _talking_  to our Soldier. Fury's own system inside of Captain Rogers' walls picked up what dialogue they could hear over music—and  _music?_  Reminds me of the crap Ross kept trying to feed me. What really happened inside that little apartment?" Pierce remarks casually, his tone airily amused. A small shake of his head. "S.H.I.E.L.D. has never tried that before; they're dead too quickly. Not to say that Barnes spared her entirely…but he didn't kill her. Perhaps he should have. And  _what's more_ , I get calls in the middle of the night telling me that Barnes is…what is it?"

Sitwell's pupils expand their size as he stares steadily through Pierce. The whites of his eyes glow under the magnification of his glasses. "Sir. Arnim Zola...wants to speak to you."

Pierce slowly lifts his longs fingers to push at his suddenly stooping glasses from tumbling off of his nose. "Excuse me?"

"He's…he's compromised Avengers' Tower. He's…he's apparently killed Tony Stark."

Pierce's heart nearly stops. His body goes through the motions of mindlessly searching for the remote. A TV flickers on and the news is already buzzing through surround sound speakers. Cameras from all angles are reporting the highlights of a smoldering, blinking, burning tower. He has turned it on just in time to watch the gathered reaction of thousands of voices gasping all at once: The letter " _A_ " is on fire, and on the verge of falling into the traffic below.

"…And Doctor Banner?"

"No word on him, sir. The destruction is astronomical for the building, but there aren't any bodies. He's…" Sitwell's voice is a sharp pause. The double agent's fingers are tight around the receiver as he listens. He doesn't continue. He's lost in the images flooding the screen.

The loose skin of Pierce's jowls contorts into a disheartened frown. He understands silence quite well. "Then they're not dead."

"Zola wishes to speak to you, sir." Sitwell manages. The glare of the TV is orange across his glasses.

"Right. Certainly." A wrinkled hand reaches out for the receiver. "Sitwell, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave—oh, but do turn on each of the televisions to a different news channel before you go. No doubt I'm going to be  _very_  busy with Representatives from New York and Council investigations until morning." He gives the cellphone an extra spin along his desk before taking the line. "That's a demanding distraction for Fury, if I do say so myself."

* * *

When the medical techie spots Alexander Pierce's long-legged, adamant stride down the hallway of the HYDRA lab, panic washes through him all over again.

He had practiced what exactly he was going to say since they had to summon the older gentleman from halfway across the globe—and now, the technician could only think how he would be chosen for the act of explaining what had gone wrong to their greatest asset. He was practically martyred in the eyes of the rest of the lab assistants and nurses that quickly jogged into different medical bays.

Rumors. Word of mouth. The chaos was spreading down the snowy Andes mountains miles above them like an impermeable fire. He had never been face to face with the compartment leaders of HYDRA before, let alone the World Security Council, but the idea built a lightheaded feeling in his entire body to meet Pierce. He had heard that Pierce wasn't condescending or careless. That Vice President Pierce certainly wasn't rude. He was too charismatic, too witty. He listened. He was bold. Lively for his age. He was…

… a foot away from the two iron barred doors that held back the force between the Winter Soldier and their irreplaceable leader. The techie struggles, caught between admiration and fear. Their leader is dressed spotlessly in a blue business suit having clearly just stepped off the Hellicarrier from another  _tête-à-tête_  session of the very real debate for Project Insight.

"Sir! Sir, don't come in here." A clipboard is pushed into the older man's face from a red faced, jittery medical agent, which halts expensive leather loafers in their pace. Pierce collects the young techie's attention in a gentle, but stern stare. "He's—unstable. Unreasonable!"

"Did anyone have the logical idea of sedation?"

"We've tried, sir, but I'm afraid that it's only made him more—more concussed. We couldn't even get close enough to check him over from the mission. There is…there is a lot of blood, sir."

"Is it his?"

"No sir. It is a superficial collection, but at range our medical scanners indicate that it is the Agent's." The younger man quips at once. There is a noticed deliberation before he continues the rest of his read out from his chart. "Although, curiously, we haven't yet to find her blood signature in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s—"

As Pierce leans firmly forward, the techie stumbles. His hand reaches to touch at the square ID pinned to the young man's white overcoat. The techie studies him, stunned. The creases in Pierce's face, the frown on his lips, and the glint in those light blue eyes are not anything like he has been told. They're unsettling.

"Davis? Davis, is it?" At the chamber's gate, Alexander Pierce fixes the medical tech with a keen eye. The techie quickly nods. "I didn't fly from Washing D.C., delaying procedures of absolute importance with  _President Ellis_ , I might add, to not go into this room, Davis."

The techie flusters. "Sir—I understand that, of course, but you see—"

"I am going to see. Right now, in fact." The Vice President replies impatiently. He turns to lay a friendly pat on the younger man's shoulder. "But I appreciate your concern." He gives a sharp smile before turning on his heel once more. The order of the sealed doors to be unlocked.

_"Sir—!"_  The techie protests in desperation, but Pierce's back is to him and the doors are shut almost as quickly as they opened. He's alone in the hallway.

From a few doors away, Davis notices the sprinting tap of heels over the chilling linoleum. A woman is suddenly making her way loudly for the same locked doors and Davis can only dig in his heels as she approaches. Yet another person to fail to deny. She's in a lab coat as well with a thick, uniform black- under sweater to keep in the warmth from the underground facilities. Her ID is pinned by a metal band to her chest and as soon as they're within distance it's that very ID that makes Davis realise who she is and he instantly backs away from the door.

"Planning on locking me out, Cole?" She pants, her lips pale, but the flush to her temples and neck are bright red. The dark blue in her eyes are startlingly sharp. Her curling, dark brunette hair is pinned up with all manners of sliver clips, loosely falling out from her run from C-5 to F-17. She's never looks this unkempt before. She's known for her demeanor. Davis had heard from the staff down at the Cafeteria that even  _Jasper Sitwell_  thought she could handle just about any plan gone wrong, and that guy wasn't startled by  _anything._

This settles it for the techie. This whole ordeal wasn't planned, despite Pierce's orders to stay calm. It isn't just bad timing. It seems even the most needed are out of sorts.

"No—no, of course not, ma'am."

"Please, Cole," Her voice tightens. "You know my name just as much as I know yours. I forget how young they recruit you. Remind me  _more_  of my age. As if recalibrating James wasn't bad enough." A shake of her head resets her, but the shock in the technician's eyes doesn't leave. "What's wrong—"Her eyes sweep the papers clinging to the clipboard in his hands and she curses. "Is Pierce in there already? No! Dammit, no! I knew I was too late! He puts me in charge of the victim and then expects me to—?! I can't be  _anywhere_  at once!"

She shoves the techie out of the way, nearly knocking him to the floor, as she commands her code for entry and is inside without another sound.

* * *

The debriefing chamber is made of four solid walls of Adamantium, thanks to a few years of embezzlement from a highly guarded proximity of the U.S. military's defense department. Pierce is rather proud of himself for thinking so far ahead as, although it is not soundproof, it is capable of restraining the force of his Soldier.

This room is what keeps his entire organization safe.

Pierce's expression is etched unwavering determination. The staff to his left and right, however, are not.

They have pressed themselves to the farthest edges of the medical bay from the usual containment chair used to fix Barnes' arm or body, but Pierce merely questions why at all they would bother. Years of working with this "soldier", this  _weapon_  of HYDRA, leaves the Vice President to wonder if Barnes even understands what fear looks like across a person's face. Not that fear would stop him. Lack of emotional response and loss of facial readings, as he had been informed, are an everlasting side effect of the maintenance it requires to keep the Soldier in pristine condition.

"Oh, stop cowering, really. He's sitting down." Pierce addresses clearly. He dismisses the blood stains, the dents in the steel drawers, the whining from tattered limbs of his agents. He keeps his eyes to the only thing in the room that matters:

The Soldier.

Pierce's voice is a drill call for attention, but the man does not move from the chair resting in the center of the haphazardly cleared room. Metal chairs have been knocked over from the obviously terrified tread the staff had carved for themselves. Bandages, syringes, empty bullet casings spill across the floor, but Pierce merely hums in appreciation. The Soldier's back is bent slightly. His left arm grasping at the stripped fabric of the chair. His right hand ends with human fingers curled around a knee cap. That long hair, with Pierce personally cannot stand, hangs into the pale, wide stare of suddenly aware blue eyes.

Pierce steadies himself by looking over the machine next to The Soldier. Just in case. The metal structure is connected to a very powerful Electroconvulsive machine, and it appears to be undamaged despite the smashed drawers and trembling agents in the room, and that's a damn fortune thing, too. That chair has been hand-designed since the 1940's. By today's standard it would be next to impossible to fix on such short notice.

The doors slide open again, and soon Pierce's glances slightly back to see another medical staff enter the room. Just some woman.

_Ah._ Pierce's realises.  _Just the person I requested._

"Thank you for finally joining me, Doctor Ross."

She nods once at Pierce before stepping aside to examine the rest of the staff. Some are bleeding from the untrained effort of restraining Barnes.

With a clear of his throat, Pierce approaches the lowered eyes of the James Barnes.

"Welcome back. I see that you've created quite a turn. Mission report, please."  
 **  
**The Soldier doesn't seem to hear the words. His delayed gaze is fixed into a trance-like stare on the drawers, almost as if he's, for the first time, contemplating what is inside of blood is encrusted to his clothing. Pierce reaches steadily down to grasp the back of a chair. With a groan the HYDRA commander sits down, smoothing out his suit before inching forward to correct his posture. He quickly clears his throat again.

"There. Now we can speak properly." Pierce smiles expectantly to see the blank stare over man's pale face only to find that it is missing. The Soldier's tense position doesn't comply. His eyes still refuse to acknowledge him. A small twinge of anger spreads across the older man's stomach at the defiance. Drug induced or not, this is about respect. "Isn't it rude to not look at your commanding officer when addressed, son?"

The Soldier's mouth curls in the realization that he needs to speak but it is a jarring process. Slow. Yet another side effect. Ross had warned him about this nonsense before.

Pierce hasn't needed to be this close to his Soldier in a long time. Not since…what was it... 96' 98'…2006? The years blur together in assignations and finely planned excursions centered around The Winter Soldier, not numbers. He's surprised to hear the grim hiss of electric tubes like veins inside The Soldier's left arm.

Suddenly, dark blue eyes are glaring at him, entirely focused. ****  
  
 _"Seychas Stiv Rodzhers?"_  The Soldier finally rasps. His dark eyes flicker once to Pierce's face before returning to his hands, unsure of how to proceed.

He knows this man. His eyes are pale. Icy in colour. Discoloured sweat is gliding into his hair. It's getting hotter in the room. Harder to stare into the bright, ferocious lights bouncing back against every silver surface. Everything looks like a door, but there is nowhere to go. It's disorienting. This room, these people. They're painful.

Pierce's brows raise only slightly. He doesn't understand a word of that coarse, rough language, but it almost sounded like a question. "Mission report in English, please." _  
_  
 _"Chto vy sdelali so mnoy?"_  The monotone in his voice, from the rare times Barnes ever truly bothers to speak, is hard to follow. Is that an  _inflection_  he's sensing? Is  _his_  Soldier defying direct orders?

Pierce turns to the scarcely breathing crowd behind him. "Why is he refusing to speak in English?"

"We don't know, sir." A voice responds from the white coated bodies. "He's been silent since the  _rendezvous_  point and violent when provoked." A few murmured agreements are shared before Pierce turns fully, his back decidedly to The Soldier without a second thought.

His eyes seem to zero onto a particular face from the crowd. "And what do you think, Dr. Ross? Another cognitive repression brought to fruition?"

"You know my opinions." She responds sharply before turning to set the battered arm of a Lab tech. "I don't believe in the exercise. It won't help you gain anything that you want any faster. But I know that you'll insist."

"You know me too well, my dear." Pierce agrees coldly. "But I'll try it your way, hm? And if he doesn't respond…well, he and I will have another talk." He turns back again to find that The Soldier has hardly moved. Perhaps barely even blinked. "I'm going to ask you again,  _comrade._  Mission report."

_"Net. Ne dlya vas."_

Pierce's entire body tenses. "In. English. I don't have time to translate whatever it is you're saying. In fact, I do believe you've scared off the poor, frightened translator for this section. Now I'm going to ask you nicely one more time.  _Mission. Report._  I understand what has happened, but I need your details."

The Soldier's eyes slowly study the entirety of Pierce's strong form before him and narrow. Fingers clench tightly around his knees. The whites of his knuckles are floating brightly against the black sea of his suit. His lips shift minimally as he slows down his speech. A near grey tongue slides across to moisten ragged lips. He shakes his head rapidly as if trying to correct himself.

"… _Kto…byl eta devushka?"_ the Soldier answers shakily. "... _Ona skazala, chto znayet menya. Ona pozvonila mne chto-to—"_  
  
Suddenly, without warning, Pierce's shoulders move ever so precisely and the loud, unfaultable sound of hand to cheek echoes around the room. The Soldier's head snaps to one side. Dark hair collected in a fist.

_"I. Said. English."_

The Soldier slowly sets his head forward again. His eyes tense over the old man's face. Deliberately, his words return in disjointed English. "…What… is… a "Bucky"?"

The Vice President flushes heatedly. "You misunderstand me. I don't care what you're asking. I ask the questions, I tell you the mission, and I said mission report."

"I read the paper," Soldier continues in a low tone, unhearing to Pierce's command. "It was difficult. It is old writing. It said a name. The girl said it was mine."

Pierce's lips pull back thinly. Barnes' eyes weaver over the creases of his brow; the dark grease of his black face paint dripping into circles under frozen eyes. "That woman is an enemy. A S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent. What's there to understand? You've killed them before. You incapacitated her, didn't you?"

"Easily. She did not fight back." The Soldier growls. "But she was not the target I was informed of. She told me…" His fingers loosen as the words suddenly fade away from him.

Pierce is losing his patience. "What did she say?" He snaps. "Anything at all could be important to our resources. There was…interference with the equipment used to listen in. We need you to tell the rest."

The Soldier breathes in shallowly. "…that she knew me." His eyes raise to the perturbed expression filling the paling jowls across the older man's face. "She knows… me."

"She's lying." Pierce allots rationally. "You understand this. You've worked your whole life to undo all of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s lies. It was a trap that we were not prepared for. Your target did not arrive as planned. It was an unforeseen command made by Fury to reveal you."

Gradually, the Soldier's back straightens in the proceeding silence. Pierce feels his pulse begin to slow. He seems to be understanding. "Who is Steve Rogers?"

Pierce keeps the Soldier's gaze to his face alone. "Your target. You've tracked him before."

The Soldier slowly flexes his metal fingers in their joints. "That girl…said he and I were friends." Those scathing eyes narrow at Pierce. "She said that he is looking for me."

Pierce sighs shortly between pursed lips. "She was confused with trauma and fear. All this means is that with this plan compromised, it is wise to think that he is aware of you by now, yes."

"That girl knows him. There was another paper with this handwriting." The Soldier shifts again—for a moment, Pierce thinks that Barnes will rise to tower over him, but instead he leans unsteadily against the long metal arms of the chair. A wince runs across his face. A single flash of pain that twists his features. "I couldn't understand it."

Fear has thick, terrible claws like a grey winged falcon tightening around Pierce's chest. In that moment of exposure, all covered ground is lost. He can tell that he's losing him. Amazingly, he can see the shaking of HYDRA's greatest agent, teeth grinding together beneath trembling lips. He can sense the edge that the young Tech outside was whimpering over.

"You're confused." Pierce explains carefully. "You're falling for what Fury wants you to believe. This is all lies. And look what it's done to you." The older man holds out his arms to force The Soldier's eyes to face the ghostly mass, frightened into furthest edges of the cell. "These are your allies. All they want is to receive you back safely from your mission. You're in pain, aren't you?"

"No, sir." The Soldier objects coarsely, but there is truth in it. His body feels like it's falling apart in pieces. He keeps feeling like he's about to fall, but he can see the floor. He understands the proximity of the building, the air temperature, the gravity of his weight. It's illogical for him to fall. He needs to find a door. Fingers tightened over a single arm of the chair. He blinks furiously, but the lights are only getting hotter. This room. He's been here before. Time and time again.

Something happens here.

"It's like I said. She's lying to you to plead for her life. Why didn't you silence her?"

"She was not my target." The Soldier repeats emotionlessly **.**

"Yet HYDRA does not take prisoners. I see that this mission has spotted your instructions." Pierce leans back with a heavy sigh, arms crossing in disappointment. "You've decided against my orders and I truly hope that there are details—anything of  _importance—_ to justify this bold act?"

"Yes."

Pierce leans forward again intently. "Then tell me."

Heavy blue eyes lock to Pierce. "Who is James Barnes?"

"No one." Pierce cuts off the question at once. "No one of importance. He has been dead for a very long time, and that woman is far too young to have known him."

The gates are opening again and a swarm of heavily padded agents are pouring through. The Winter Soldier shudders involuntarily.

This is not a safe room.

He shouldn't be here.

"There is something you are not telling me," The agitation across his face is rising. "I told you; I read that paper. I saw that face." Human fingers slowly raise up to touch at a bruised cheek. "I  _know_  him."

"You're confused," Pierce repeats gently. "I could have Doctor Ross here check you for migraines. You remember her, don't you?"

"I feel fine," he snaps bitingly. He glances away for a heartbeat, but he is certain that this doctor does not exist. He cannot see her beyond the wall of black suited men.

From the crowd, Elizabeth Ross lowers her eyes at the mention of her name. She can't stop what's coming next.

"By the look of my HYDRA staff and this room, you should reconsider your words." Pierce replies seethingly. "You need to calm down."

"I know that face," the Soldier urges again, loudly. He can't help but search everywhere for what his commander isn't telling him. Everything is glossy and sleek. His body is distorted in every surface. "I've _seen_  that face."

Suddenly, his eyes still. Pierce watches as the Soldier slowly studies his left arm and horror washes vividly across his face in unmistakable agony.

The star on his arm is a boiling, burning red. He wore red once for a country where he had learned Russian. He had shot an allusive woman with red hair once and she was nothing like the crying woman he had between arms. He had shot an official looking man with red hair driving in an uncovered limousine with American police squadron cheering to a whole crowd of people. The whole country mourned him for a decade. The newspaper was old and grey before the red over took it. Did he kill this boy as well?  _Why?_

He tries again. "Who was James Barnes?"

Pierce is unfazed. "You are not listening to me—"

"Stop lying to me!" The Soldier on his feet very quickly and at the same moment black compact barrels of a dozen guns are aimed but Pierce's raised arms silence their urge to fire.

"Steady," Pierce commands with a single word.

He isn't staring into the eyes of James Barnes. No one truly has. Not for over five decades—but someone is behind those eyes. Pierce can see him emerging from the gaping hole of a black iris. A psychotic rebirth. Struggling. Screaming. The Soldier's chest is heaving—drippings of spittle lingering around his jaw. Practically foaming at the mouth like some wild animal.

It is all so terribly pathetic that  _this_ is what has upset his Soldier in decades. Something has gone terribly wrong with this mission.

It is time to consider it a failure.

"What does that girl know? How does she know me?"

"She doesn't." Pierce answers coldly.

"Stop _lying_  to me." His hands rise up slowly to grasp at the sides of his head. The pain is blinding. His vision doubles. Six Agents with guns. Twelve. Twenty-four. He has to keep going. This is wrong. This is all wrong.

"WHAT DOES SHE KNOW?!" The Soldier bellows, every word filled with uncontrollable rage.  _"TELL ME!_  SOMEONE KNOWS. OUT THERE.  _SOMEONE KNOWS!"_

"Isolate him for the Prep." Pierce decides aptly. "This mission was a failure and we have to retrace our errors. I want him ready to leave again in two hours."

The wall of Agents are overpowering—The Soldier barely has time to keep his footing before he's pinned to the back of the chair, but he keeps demanding his answers. His voice cuts out only when the electro-magnet is clamped to his left arm—numbing his entire shoulder and soaking the sensation into his back. The chair is hissing beneath him with life. Metal rivets and straps are pulling him under. His head is tightened into a brace. He keeps trying to escape. Something happens in this room.

"Sir. We—He's—he's been out for too long," a voice from the crowd steps forward. "He's remembering. Suspended in the cryochamber…there's a very strong chance that it will only hold him back. But never erase—"

"Fine!" Pierce curses in frustration. "Wipe him, if you must. But if you do, make sure it's slow. Make sure we're starting entirely over. I don't care if he can barely remember how to  _crawl_  when it's over. He saw his name…do you all understand what that means? He saw his  _name._  Fury is playing a whole new game right beneath our noses. No." Pierce stands, pushing the chair aside. "No, I want it so deep inside of that long-haired head of his that he is dedicated entirely to HYDRA. Make it so he won't recall that Agent. I expect for him to  _never_ question my orders again."

"'Crawl'?" Ross holds the word bitterly on the tip of her tongue. "Working with him until he is fully capable to return to the field will take time, sir. Days. Perhaps weeks." The doctor continues her comments, shoulders forward in authority but her scowl full of disapproval. "Not the  _hours_ that you request."

"I overstated myself, my dear. But it's your damn job, anyways. Don't let me hear you complain about it."

The leavers are falling into place. Wires are sticking to the sweat of his skin. The Soldier can feel static moving through the hair on his body, bleeding the moisture from his eyes. Voices are murmuring above him. His eyes flicker wildly around the room. He doesn't know any of these faces. They're blurring in and out, transparent as ghosts.

"I suggest you turn that voltage down." Ross counters testily. Pierce promptly turns, pushing back through the armored bodies to nearly run into the brunet doctor. Her cool eyes look at him in contempt but she continues with her reasoning. "I have submitted report after report to you, sir. By now it should be clear that these higher "treatments" needed to repress his memories are starting to take their psychological, and soon to be physical, effect. There will be a breaking point."

"This mission was the breaking point, Doctor." Pierce tells her darkly. The paleness in his eyes are unreadable. "Excuse me."

Holding his head high over The Soldier's body, the Vice President keeps himself entirely still. He closes his eyes only to hear Barnes raggedly breathing between a mouth piece. "You have a very bad headache."

There are no words to express the hate inside of those blue eyes when Pierce smiles down at him. The Soldier merely  _snarls_  in retaliation.

"A very bad  _headache."_  Pierce repeats. "This will make it go away."

The Soldier's teeth suddenly ache. Steel is being forced into bone. A mouth piece is grinding between teeth.

Words do not exist anymore—only swift, breathless  _pain._

The dial is lifted to a higher rank. The hairs on his entire body stand on end. Another inch. All Sounds are gone except for a high, far off whistle. One of his arms is missing. Gears are turning. The room blurs darkly, spins, shakes as his eyes close tightly. Another notch. His skin is burning.  _Light up;_ Two words are ripped into his consciousness and then away from him. He tastes smoke. He tastes blood. He can't breathe. He's choking. Higher. His muscles are spasming, locked in a skeletal cage. His entire build thrashing against the bindings. He forces his eyes open but the world is made of swirling damp colours. Pale. Pale and blue like the sky. He hasn't seen the sky in so long. He tries to bite at the demons, blue and white and coloured with red.

Sparks are shooting under his eyelids. The handle won't advance any further.

He remembers it now. This has happened all before, and it is always at the end that he understands the cycle. It will not break. A circle cannot break with no end and no beginning. Indestructible. Someone had told him.

He would be  _indestructible._

He screams; it is the only release he has for the pain convulsing inside of his skull. Tears, soft and endless, are streaming down his cheeks.

The pale eyed shadow above him is asking a question. The Soldier tries to give him the answer he wants. He tries to shake his head. Tries make a sound, but he feels himself falling backwards, losing his grip. If he could speak, he'd ask for mercy. He'd  _beg_  for it.

…And he can see the faces of the lives he has taken, mouthless and skinless, crying out for mercy…

The pressure inside of his bones inch forward, shattering his last thought.

The circle has no mercy.

* * *

In the darkness of his office, Nicholas Fury's personal cellphone chimes.

[IN COMING TEXT MESSAGE FROM: DATACODE COULD NOT BE FOUND]  
[SUBJECT: FWD: FWD: TEXTS TO STEVE ROGERS PERSONAL MOBILE]  
[TO: NICK FURY]  
 _  
I'm here. 5:36_

_Natasha and the rest of the girls have to leave, but I would love to see you again today, if you're up for it?C:_  5:44 pm.

_She says that she wants to borrow your motorcycle…she won't say why…but…I may have mentioned you have a fever. I may be regretting that._  5:51pm

_Lol! I don't regret it then, Soldier Steve._  5:59pm.

_[[MULTIMEDIA PHOTO ATTACHED]]_

_I really love your apartment, Steve! The kitchen is stunning. So modern!  
When we move in together…and I decided to redecorate it, what do you think of the colour red?_

_OXOXO_

[Seen at 5:37 am]

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, well, well…Miss Elizabeth Ross…what are you doing here? Would you look'it that. The first half of Chapter 26 DID have a purpose!
> 
> Once again, I'm sorry but I had to cut this a bit or else the balance for development would be just terrible.
> 
> NOTES ON BUCKY'S CHARACTER:
> 
> We're about to go on a journey, you and I. I've read so many absolutely gorgeous stories on here where a lot of authors tend to use a "jumping point" for Bucky—rather using just before he remembers who he is, or right after and that's all fine and swell.
> 
> However, I'm not going that route. And that's scary. And that's difficult and had me find some rather interesting problems. For instance, did anyone else notice in the film that whenever HYDRA (be it a HYDRA Agent wise or Pierce himself) talks to The Winter Soldier…he isn't addressed? I don't mean in the "Well, yeah, Kay, they CAN'T tell him his name!" I mean…he's just nameless. Nothing. He has no name, or code, no nickname. Just "The Winter Soldier" and I highly doubt absolutely everyone will call Bucky that at all manner of the day. How exhausting. He just listens and we, as the audience know who is talking to whom, but that's really, really tough since I don't have a camera, 10 trillion dollars, or Sebastian Stan in my closet.
> 
> So, I guess what I'm trying to say here is that please understand that anything I change I will only change slightly. I like to pride myself in keeping characterization canon as I possibly can and it KILLS me to go off course sometimes. But, with risk comes reward. I'm going to do my best to explore Bucky in a some new, creative ways beyond him suddenly releasing what's going on, but keep him as canon as possible. But you guys know me by now, and if you're on friggin' chapter 41 I figure you're in this for the long haul and won't mind that kind of build up for characters.
> 
> Bucky's translations:
> 
> "Seychas Stiv Rodzhers?"….Who is Steve Rogers?
> 
> "Chto vy sdelali so mnoy?"…..What did you do to me?
> 
> "Net. Ne dlya vas."….No. Not to you.
> 
> "…Kto…byl eta devushka?" …..Who was that girl?
> 
> "... Ona skazala, chto znayet menya. Ona pozvonila mne chto-to—" …..She said she knew me. She called me something.
> 
> ps. Much needed apology to anyone that actually speaks Russian. I sadly do not and had to work with what I could research. If there are corrections, please let me know.
> 
> Now: on to Beth. Yes. Yes. For real this time. I know.I'm just awful, I know! I'm sorry! This scene had to happen before hand! You'll see!
> 
> Thank you all SO very much again!


	41. The Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Beth enters into the suddenly not so glamorous world of Super Heroes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 42: The Truth  
> *Thanks to my grand editor: TheDreamSmith
> 
> AN: So, you guys ever find yourself on a roller coaster—let's say this is a mighty tall roller-coaster—and you're in the seat of it as it sits at the tippy top, and you look over the side and you notice that it's a looooooooong way down? And wow, hey, jeez, this thing looks an awful lot taller than you did when you were standing on the ground. So you turn to your buddy next to you to complain about it—and you suddenly realise that no one is sitting beside you.
> 
> It's just you. You're there. You put yourself up on this roller-coaster, and you have to face the fall.
> 
> Uh-huh? Well, yeah, I've been sitting at the tippy top of this roller coaster for, oh, you know, a month.
> 
> I bet you guys have felt like that for a bit, too. So…*shakes everyone's hand* Hey. Hey you, nice to see your eyeballs. I've missed your face around here! Hey! Hi. How ya doin'? Me? Oh, you know…here…there…everywhere.
> 
> Okay. Here's the honest truth.
> 
> I got scared. Like, super scared. A month's worth of scared. Because I love you guys. Seriously. I love this giant novel-thing, I love writing, I love everything that fanfiction has given to me as a person, like friends and out-lets for stress, and fun…
> 
> But then I sort've felt this intense pressure inside of me? Like...what if I totally mess this up?
> 
> I was stupefied at the idea of more than falling…but of failing, I guess. And maybe that's stupid of me to honestly tell you guys. Maybe that is stupid to be so scared and stress so much and work so hard over a hobby…but…that's just what being on this site means to me. I swear, I read better work and discover more un-published authors WORLDS better than anything I've seen published in a while, and I should know, as I've worked in a book store for a long time.
> 
> So…all I can say is, as I always friggin' do, to all that have joined, followed, favourited, reviewed and, even more so, stuck with me through this.
> 
> I know I don't update the quickest. I know my chapters aren't the most condensed. I know I'm not perfect with everything I write…but I want to always give you guys the best I can, particularly since this fic is so long…there's just no reason for me to muck it up. So, thank you again. I also owe the biggest thank you to GoldenPuon for being brilliant and wonderful and just…amazing.
> 
> The long of the short is: I, ironically, wrote this fic to practice "romance", because I noticed that it's one of the many areas of improvement I have as a writer. And that's been going great—I'd dare say I'm not even half bad at writing some romance. I've seen better, but yeah, I like mine pretty darn okay. But then it hit me a month ago: this fic suddenly isn't very fluffy anymore. What I'm doing to these characters isn't very cute. And I noticed that I'm far too high off the ground to summon the roller-coaster employee to boot my stupid butt off of this ride.
> 
> This fic is a one way drop—in fact, it's the major drop. THE drop, I dare say.
> 
> But, what I want to specifically add here is that I didn't build up 40 chapters of a Beth/Steve romance to throw it away. So, if you came here because you liked my fluff—don't worry. It's gonna be back. Frankly, I could write Beth/Steve fluff forever and never think twice about it. I just want to say that their relationship isn't going to go away, and, like any good story, there is still going to be fun and light times…and some worse times, too.
> 
> I wanted to challenge myself further. I wanted to twist the genre a bit on its head, intertwine some hilarity, like with Spider-Man cameos (which I still demand more of SOMEHOW) I wanted to mix up the TWS scenes. I wanted more than just a fluffy, romantic fic.
> 
> So…jeez Kay, shut up and get the point.
> 
> Despite my fear, despite everything, I'm getting this story on the road again, and I believe it starts with this bridge that's going to connect to a world of possibility. So, here it is.
> 
> Here's Beth.

Chapter 42: The Truth

* * *

Beth awakens to a scream, but it is not hers. It can't be hers, and although she gasps, there is no sound.

A figure is sitting close to her in the warm darkness. It's a body, a person. Beth strains to make out the face but every action is backwards. She wants her eyes to stay open, and they only close. She wants to sleep again, and she's staring up into soft, sad looking eyes. The body has both its arms and for some reason, that makes her feel calm. She's too tired to make out the rest. Floating, outlined in thick, black lines, it moves, and Beth finds she can see the wavering fragments of light that make the taut skin of an extended arm glisten like snow. Careful, gentle fingers are tracing the back of her head, along her neck.

At that touch, air rushes out of her; maybe all she's ever held inside in one single gasp, pale lips floundering along the pillow. Red lighting seems to be extending from those fingertips, ripping into her head, running through her body to knot up her nerves because that touch nearly entices a seizure—and Beth's seen the result of seizures before. At least the victim doesn't remember them, but this Beth cannot forget. The figure doesn't seem to mind Beth's objection; it continues along determinedly and it is only then that Beth can make out shoulder-length hair.

"…Mom?" The name is dry, cracking along her lips. She forces her arm harder but her body refuses to listen, and she only wracks herself with shivers. She wants to hold that hand. She needs to feel her mother's hand. "…Mom?"

"You're going to have to lie." A woman's voice. It's seems so far above her, just out of reach.

Beth coughs, seizing as she turns her head away. Her head pulses in pain. Hot tears form in her eyes. The suffocating blackness dots her every blink. She's too warm. Her skin is burning off of her. Can't she see that? It's so hot. She wants water. She wants her mother.

The body turns away, neck tense, and the voice is muffled. Words are being tossed openly around her, as if she doesn't exist, or is too stupid to be considered necessary to the tango of exchanges. She struggles hear in this dim and muted world, but she recognizes two words with extreme clarity: _Captain America._

Those two words allow an intake of what little air is safe into her lungs, but the figure—she only supposes there is another person, lurking somewhere around the edges where she can't see, hardly notices her pulse picking up. There's a distant, annoying beeping pushing through the shadows. Still, in the blackness, someone else screaming, but the title is said again in voices that dance above her, waltzing back and forth in hushed, lullabied vibrato. ****  
  
 _"…Can't be so…."_

_"…Rogers, Honestly…do you really think…and she isn't—"_

_"—He isn't …Certainly…Captain Rogers…No…"_

_"Agent?...Perhaps in…"_

_"Don't be cruel, Elizabeth.…"_

_"I'm not being…surprised…realistic."_

_"Dead. He's… but merely her left shoulder…bruising throughout…jaw."_

_"But the blood, you…wrong…databases…SHIELD…"_

_"and Barnes. There…"_

_"Captain America…amazingly…"_

It's hard to keep up with how quickly they step through silences and dip into each other's words. Beth disrupts the flow with a whimper; the sound low and drawn out, wrecking the effortless ballad of words. She wants someone to look at her. She feels crushed, pathetic, less than human...she can barely speak without her voice breaking. The voices stop. That stained neckline turns back, and Beth focuses on the thin green veins running down the slope into a pointed collar bone.

"Disturbing." The female voice finishes.

"Reckless, even for him." The other returns. It's deeper. Male. It continues on without a passing glance. "I still don't believe it." Another scant pause. "Allow me to rephrase: I don't want to believe it."

"I don't quite see it myself, Richard," The female voice replies cautiously. "But this is certainly closer than I originally thought useful."The man keeps talking, but Beth blocks him out, although his words spark something painful in her spine. Her shoulders narrow inward on their own, coiling herself with a will to become smaller but her eyes refuse as they flickering up at a ceiling that is expansive and textureless.

_…Captain…America…_

"Stop moving." The woman's voice orders bluntly, but the tone is still low, still a whisper but it's straining with frustration as if she's been over this one too many times. "You're going to make it worse. I'm going to give you morphine in a moment."

Pain.  _So this is true, real pain_ , Beth thinks slowly. The kind that you can't mark anywhere on your body. It just rolls across you, crushing your lungs and squeezing your throat tighter and tighter with every moment until tears are the only sign that you're conscious.

This hurts so much. Why did this happen? What happened? How is she still alive? Is Steve..?

_Steve._

Her eyes open again, but all she can see is the night settling in around her. She clumsily drawls her lips open, together, apart. She has to ask. It's important. He isn't safe. No one is safe.

"Where is he?"

God, she  _hates_  those fingers. They keep moving along her neck, and she can't move away. She tries not to whimper in fear. Is she dying? Is she going to hurt her, too?

There is a metal rustle of a bed shaking from the impact from a knee to a mattress.

"—Dear God, scared the hell out of me!" The man's voice, once suddenly mild, is flustered. "She's conscious?" He asks quickly. Beth narrowly senses the pull of air, the swivel of a head to glare at the woman attached to those terrible fingers. "Did  _you_  know she was conscious?"

The woman remains impervious. Her eyes are drawn to the girl alone. "Let her finish."

"He…" Beth's voice breaks. Her heart feels like it's coming undone. Faces are changing in and out from the darkness, nametags and masks, glass and paper. Blue eyes that share the same icy determination. She closes her eyes. She thinks she wants them closed. "…a gun?"

"You're safe."

_Safe_ , Beth grasps onto the word, walks across every letter like a bridge bringing her back into the welcoming, painless darkness, but it doesn't change anything. It never has. Her eyes open again, unseeing. "Did he lie to me?"

Someone clucks their tongue at her. "I'm afraid I don't understand you, but that's alright. You haven't made much sense in a while. You'll feel better in a moment…"

"I don't understand," Beth repeats, her voice rising up shrilly. Words are hard to form, so she has to use what she can hear. She has to tears them to bits, plasters them against her teeth, conjoin them whole again with her tongue in desperation to communicate, but she's breathlessly lost. "…Who is he?"

_Glass._  Her thoughts return and vanish again. _Wasn't there glass?_

A hand is suddenly in her own. She can't squeeze it. She can't feel her arms, but she knows there's a weight there. She wants it to squeeze back. "Calm down." The sound of feet walking around the outlines of the bed. "You're okay. It's okay."

_Ronda..?_ Beth's brows narrow for a split second, and fall back.  _No. No. Why isn't anyone listening to me?_   _It's not going to be okay. It's never going to be okay. I was attacked—someone—anyone—Steve could be—_

_Steve._  
  
"He lied to me." Beth's voice is a tremble in the silence.

For once, neither voice corrects her.

She doesn't want to cry, but it all begins with a strangled choke. Her world looks like the thin screen of her bedroom's window, littered with blurring, speeding dots of black and blue. Rain is getting in, dripping through the holes.

Suddenly, a pleasant frost lines her veins, secures her body, and the darkness swallows her down like the sea.

* * *

Steve lied.

This isn't real.

This isn't happening.

But…she's been here before, hasn't she?

It's so familiar. The sound of waves curling loosely around wood, lacking the will to drag themselves onto land, gnawing at the ancient legs of a pier. A pier, crusted silver and blue, from the falling of snow above her. She looks up and finds that there isn't a sky. It's black. Black…but not lifeless. It's pulsating. Her eyes are too weak to define the shapes teaming across the night, but they're glinting—stars? Moons? They keep moving—speeding up until she is the only thing that is still.

She's stopped breathing. Panic floods through her veins, poisonous and raw—and the stars only spin on without her.

Expanding her lungs is excruciating. Each lung is a solid wall refusing her desperate gasps. Someone had cut her open and sewed in the cruelest of tortures. She can't take a deep breath. She's shallow at the center.

A rustle of a heavy body meandering through tall grass. A muted whinny of a horse. She turns.

A fair is behind her but all of the lights are off. A Ferris wheel is eclipsed in layers of ice with icicles hanging from the burnt out bulbs along carny tents. Shadows are grey and white, sparkling the wind as it pricks her exposed fingers like loose, bony threads.

There are blocks of ice everywhere lined up along the bay; the flashes of cameras are going off, the impact like bombs of blinding white and puffs of smoke, one right after the other, but there aren't any people, just their clothing. Small gatherings of thick coats, scarfs, hat, gloves—they look more refined somehow. Higher quality trench coat, a fedora floating in thin air. She's pretty sure she can see the strings holding these phantoms afloat, but she continues through, unsure of what so interesting about sheer blocks of ice. They aren't even ice sculptures at this fair nor are they shaped like anything. They're just giant walls of water. Giant mirrors that will slowly melt away. The crowds of clothing are silently festive. They're so happy about something. She wants to know, too. She thinks to ask a more official looking suit—it almost looks to be standing apart from the pack, slacks and sunglasses poised before a camera. She nervously pulls at what she thinks would be a newscasters tie only to have the suit fall apart at her feet, quickly trampled and stained by the carelessness of invisible people.

She pushes through the crowds, finding it warmer and warmer as they move further ahead of her. The main attraction must be up ahead, Beth thinks fondly, and she starts to run forward.

Arms pushing the clothes away, she practically stumbles into the open face of another block—and the clothes rush with her, pushing her body against the ice. It so cold, it burns straight through her clothes and sinks under her skin. She tries to push back, nearly yells for anything to  _back off_  but she's trapped between the smothering of warmth and the burning of ice pressed to her face.

Shoved into the ice, into the glass, that she can easily see what's inside. And there is something inside. She's seen this before, but never up close. Somewhere when the flashing of lights bounced off the panes, and the voices of a thousand newsmen broadcasted to the world that a hero had been found.

She peers inside, delighted to be one of the first to know and she's struck with the body inside.

Frozen stiff, terrified, and bewildered, those blue eyes she has memorized stare into her as if she's the one locked inside:  _Steve._

Instantly, Beth braces both palms to the ice in shock and suddenly she's burning through. The heat from her hands are melting it down. It's cracking, thundering asunder in a massive that forces the limbless crowd to bounce and throw their hats high in celebration. She can't help but smile. He's nearly free, everyone is amazed, and she's so close to touching him—

He doesn't smile back.

He looks… _angry_. Reflected back as if he's seeing things around her that she can't…

He raises a fist and the glass splits. He pounds it again and again, and suddenly, in one powerful smash of his arm against the ice, he charges out, inches from her face.

She hugs him without a second thought, wrapping herself tightly around his chest before she looks up again. He won't look at her. His neck is tight and steeled over the crowd. She narrows her brows but refuses to give into the curiously to look at what's behind her. She doesn't want to know.

She resists a half pout.  _What's wrong? Why won't you just tell me what's wrong?_

She raises her arms to move along his chest, feeling the smooth cotton of his t-shirt soft along her palms and attempts to playfully cover his eyes—her hands trailing up his jaw to cover the outside of his temples and…

Suddenly, within the circle of her hands, she's created a mask. Beth steadies herself against him, rising up on her toes—but a blast of white light triggers from the corner of her eye—cameras—flashing on and off in pillars of smoke. It's distracting—no wonder he can't even focus—why aren't they leaving? She just wants to be alone with him— _please—he doesn't want this—he never wanted—we don't—I DON'T—_

His blue eyes meet hers, weighting heavy across her face, and between the spaces of her fingers, she stares at The First Avenger. The stolid outline of his face, the dip between his brows, the set of his teeth. The posters and news could never do the justice that it is to stare her hero in the eyes.

Terrified, alarmed, embarrassed, she startles, shoving him away—but the match of his weight against hers sends her staggering back into the crowd. The crowd reacts. They grasp her arms, pulling her away, and rush for him.

_Stop!_  She commands, turning back to the ghosts.  _Stop it!_ But they're too much—far too much. They're overwhelming, storming and sticking to her skin to drag her down. She's just a nobody in a sea of bodiless phantoms, swirling and soundless to gain his attention.

She watches as he raises his shield, heaves it down with all of his might—

She is buried in the chaos.

* * *

Lying down, the view above her drifts like a fog. It spools into hues where she can make out a ceiling and then it opens up again—and instantly she can feel her body being lifted up, called forward into space where she knows, this time, when she falls she won't wake up. Her heart is painfully loud. Between it, and the crescendo of a terrible scream that rings back and forth between shrieking to a decrescendo of shameless crying. A single panting, heaving motion of noise like colossal bells smashing together in an attempt to deafen all who hear it.

She swears she can see it; this bodiless torture. Faint words drift over her lips, but there is no one to hear it.  _Is this what death is like? A room where you only hear a single scream, and it is not yours?_  She shifts her chin minimally, wanting to look left but instead her cheek lolls to the right, limp and far too heavy. The whole process is a nightmare of shadows and senseless, rushing wind in a sealed room. She can't remember if her eyes are open or closed. Colours sparks across her vision, dancing through the mist lingering above her…and she can see it. Red strings that extend from the tips of passing stars and tangle themselves into impossible, unmapped starry bodies. Not aliens, for once, but objects. Stars within stars, coiling tightly together like a woven patch. A circle with red strings tangling up its empty insides. It looks so familiar…glinting from all corners of the room…a body that is dark and is starting to bleed...She can smell the bitter mix of vomited sweetness, chocolate and acid. Her nose crinkles, trying to block it out. It's sickening. Nausea washes over her skin, bones stained purple, bruised under the dim light.

Her tongue is a dry, tasteless muscle in her mouth as touches her teeth. She suddenly finds her lips stretching back to form around something soft. Gingerly, her attempts to move it cause her entire body to shudder in horror, like someone has a pulled a tread of needles from her stomach out of her mouth. It's one long slender finger dipping down her throat, bringing air into her lungs. Her blood seems too still in her veins.

There was a time when she wasn't breathing. She finds herself looking at the floor beneath her, stunned. There is a machine she has seen before. Many times before. It moves restlessly, forcing the stale air into her lungs as it lies there, muttering and laboring mindlessly like a bloated, festering corpse used as a vessel to make her live, skull to mouth, dead lungs to dead lungs. The very thought almost makes her gag again, all of her agonizingly clenched abdominals curling to fight the urge.

The pain within her cuts the strings of all the stars she is seeing. Like a curtain hoisted up, the ceiling is thick and pressed into square tessellations. Her sight sharpens, deadens her detaching thoughts.

She's alone in a room.

Somehow, she's alive, and with the machine there it's obvious that someone wanted to make sure she survived. A hospital...? It has to be. She's seen enough medical rooms plenty of times during her classes at the university, during her volunteer shifts before her legs gave out at the sight of three degree burns. A single bed, no windows, a chair pulled up to her bedside. Wires and tubes running along the floor. She traces the walls carefully with her eyes, and only then she finds a door. She nearly smiles, if that didn't start a fire to the corner of her mouth. The breathing tube bumps against the raw skin of her throat. She had almost forgotten about it. It's so hard to breathe with it in.

She's going to rip it out.

Beth readies her fingers, numb at their tips from where they were curled into damp sheets and cinches the long cord. It's so easy. Like a chain around her insides. If she could pull it out, she would be free. She could get out of this horrible place. A way from that miserable, broken scream.

Quickly, she pushes against the mattress to reach up, but the motion stops halfway. Alarmed, Beth twists roughly, moving an ankle to coil the sheet around one leg and pull them off of her. The effort it takes to move is exhausting, and she finds herself laid back again, gasping through the tube. Her hands won't move with her. Slowly, she pulls at her left arm and the soreness around her entire shoulder paralyzes her down to her toes. At the wrist, her left arm is bound to the smooth cold safety bars on either side of her.

One hand is free, however. Her dominant hand is wrapped in beige, forced tightly to the structure as if setting bone. Unbound doesn't mean it's more useful of her sore arm, however. It's practically the opposite as its all the more difficult to use. It glows softly in the pale light as it sits snugly over her hand, stopping nearly at the entirety of her forearm where she so easily knows fingers are laced inside, hidden from examination. Her right shoulder, thankfully, moves at will despite the protective, tightly bound cloth.

She tests a single clench of those broken fingers, severed at the joints, and instantly the memory opens up before her: _This will take care of everything._

Natasha's impervious green eyes had told her that, and in that moment, without words, without cause,  _so much more_  than that. That night, bloodied and senseless, allowed her to help someone. She didn't have to be afraid. In that grasp of Natasha's hands, she was entrusted with this power to reach beyond herself … Beth believed. She wanted to believe. Even if it was an accident, a mistake…a lie.

An involuntary shiver circulates through her body, and every inch of her aches in response.

Where was Natasha now? With Steve? Far away from here…wherever this place is…unhearing of a crying, broken voice? And who would take care of what? Of her? Were they here?

She travels the room again, dark and still _._ Was…anyone at all…near?

_I did this…_ Beth practices trying to move her fingers within, but it's of no use. Whatever pain medication they've pumped into her, she can't feel them. She isn't sure if that makes her feel any better, that at least who ever found her is trying to mend her body, but the sensation of not having a hand is like being stripped of all power. Of all her plans. And with how unbearably sore her left arm feels, she isn't sure if she'd be able to open a door even if she wanted to. She's trapped. A prison that she willingly entered, all on her own.

The numbness flows from her fingers into her chest, chilling her breathing. Slowing her thoughts down.

The attack is scattered into pieces, falling through the spaces of went to Steve's apartment because…because his friend was  _alive._   _Alive from…1943…_  She'd laugh if she had the energy, just to make herself feel disdainful _. Because I thought that would be enough. That man in the mask that wanted to kill me…no wonder he didn't care. I must've been out of my mind to think that would have meant anything to anyone…_  Tears fill at the edge of her lids _. And to think…Ronda trusted in me. To think I was getting better. I'm just getting worse. I'm going insane. Those mannequins in the museum looked alive. Glass looked alive. They're going to lock me away._

She looks up at the door as she rests against the pillow, sinking down again into the cold.

_Maybe they already have…_  
  
A red LED blink flashes at her from the darkness, but the brightness is a blur that her watery gaze can't focus on, but it reminds her of something with a stronger light. Something that was meant to help her…something that she once called her own…

"The  _alarm_ ," Beth says quickly to herself in a voice that is barely more than a mumbled slur. With a shallow breath, she slowly moves her head to look around her bed, but nothing of hers apparently made the journey. A small table is connected to the bed, possibly to hold a cup of ice chips they had used to give her water or God knows what else, but there's no purse, or her cellphone, or the papers.  
 **  
**Where was that alarm now? She remembers that this room wasn't so cold and empty. It had dozens of bodies, fluttering in and out. Someone telling her to breathe deep. The terrible sound of metal and razors…

Beth's head throbs, and she curls up awkwardly, shifting her weight as to not pull against her sore arm, with her forehead pressed to shaking knees. That scream is her only companion. That horrible, lonely scream. It's not going to stop anytime soon.

_What are they doing out there?_  She thinks in half selfish desperation for silence and half terrified of wanting to know the answer.  _Won't they stop?_

She puts her head down, burrowing into the soft skin of her elbow, and tries to breathe around the tube. Each bright flash allows her to piece together what lies at the edge of the room, and she recognizes the square, electronic keypad near the door's handle. All at once, she knows she's sealed away.

_If this is a psychiatric hospital…of course. Of course it's locked._  She lets out a hard, painful snuffle into the crook of her arm, holding her to reality. _So this is what Hell is like._

_No._  Beth dares to correct herself. Hell was crowded between mountains of terrified, tear stained bodies at the terminal, unsure of they'd live or die as buildings fell to their knees and smoke filled her mouth. Hell was the multitude of breakdowns she suffered in her bathroom, clawing against the tiles for air, witnessing that police officer getting shot again and again. Hell was… the look in that man's eyes as he raised her off the floor by her arm…

Steve's apartment.

_Steve. Oh God, where is Steve? What had happened? Did he know about the man in his apartment? He said it was safe…his friend…and….Was that…on purpose? No…No, it couldn't have been. Not Steve…not my soldier…not Steve…_

She braces her good hand against her face, nails digging into her nose, and allows herself to  _want,_ quivering so shamelessly that crying doesn't seem so bad against her body's jolting protests. He had stayed with her for one night more…and if she'd had only known that would be last time. She wants to go back to watching interviews at four in the morning and hiding under his jacket. She wants to remember his smell—already her own life is fading, mint and lilac replaced with static and plastic. She wants to hug him again, to see him laugh or say something terribly cheesy or…hold his hand.

God, could Coney Island really have been within his grasp, the spaces between his fingers that sent the world spinning backwards where she had finally found a person that could hold their damaged bodies so tightly together that they formed a fate tarnished paradox that was worth believing in? She can scarcely remember those voices from before but the words are unforgettable. She picked out Steve's name, clung to it for consciousness, but it had expanded its meaning. Now it was attached to Agents. To..shields, she could only guess…to…Captain Rogers…Captain America…

She struggles in a breath, the blood rushing away from her face to pour over her insides, her stomach a bottomless pit; eating away all of her ability to hold back the aching, intolerable pain of what she's done. The truth that she had been avoiding Ronda for too long, and seen it too late. Her best friend was right. This was so much bigger than anything she had ever imagined.

This isn't a normal place. The cord strapped over her arm tells a story of control, of fear. Those mysterious doctors would've been enough by their swift and reticent exchanges. The red locked door. The man in the mask…the letter…the dead boy…And she had walked right into it—but it was more than rushing into still, deep water and waiting to drown. She wanted to go into it.

She tore the letter. She used the key. She opened the door.

She drags in a hitch, her lungs aching from crying on and off throughout the night…or was it days? She had no idea how to tell how long she had been asleep. At first she thinks it's the blur of the lights from her tears, but an shiny surface is flickering cleanly from the small table connected to the upper corner of her bed, near where her head would lay, and it's in that tight distance Beth finds she can actually stretch out an arm to reach it, hissing as she contorts her sore arm to scrabble her fingers over the wood…

It's a hand mirror. The only object in entire room, just for her.

She pauses, collecting a breath that inflates her lungs so deeply that the force nearly deafens her in a harsh, shocking  _pop_  from her eardrums. She flickers her eyes, checking to make sure she can control needed to close them again, and looks.

It's dark in the room but two eyes, deep set, red and blue, are staring back at her. She dares to move them. Implores to discover the tiny cuts covering her chin and neck. The perpetrating tube juts itself from the corner of her stitched lip and weaves itself into her sterile gown. Her cheeks are swollen, puffy with patches of yellow and purple, mingling close to her ears, allowing for her face to look all at once alive and a murder victim. Her neck is rubbed raw with the smell of antiseptic soap. Her entire body aches, spasms, unable to support herself for long without rattling her ribs for another breath. Holding the handle of the hand mirror is tough. It shakes gently in her grasp, changing her reflection until she can hardly recognize herself.

But something is different. Something is wrong. She snaps away from those eyes, suddenly aware that the change is perhaps that the scream, rising and falling, has stuttered out if for only a moment. The silence makes her heart tremble with how sober she feels.  _Desensitized_ , the vocabulary word takes a stab at her clarity, long away from when she given herself leg cramps from pacing around hour after hour for a medical final. She's too weak to panic. Too tired to lose herself. She can't go away. She's lost the will to panic. It's gone. Draining out of her with a clear siphon, stealing her emotion away…

Like a hand suddenly to her throat, suddenly she feels warmth on her neck. Too stiff to bend down, the mirror beckons her back but she can only manage a silent cry.

A drop of blood is suddenly making its way down her collar bone. Wet and warm. She's bleeding. There is no one around, and she's bleeding out. Beth means to cover her mouth, but the pale cream of the bandages over her hand blends the entire bottom half of her jaw and the bleeding body beyond the glass no longer has a mouth to speak with. She is halved. Her eyes trace the trail of the drop and suddenly, she can focus on her ears. The blood is lingering from just beneath an earlobe.

Her ears.

Slowly, she tilts the mirror so that its reflection traces the naked flesh. Her hair usually covered them and, suddenly, it's so strange to see such a normal part of herself unscathed—but the image cuts itself off. She can't extend further. She lays the mirror down carefully so that she can prop it between the short edge of the table and the bars of her bed, and angles her reflection so that she return to supporting her body without balancing the extra weight to peer down.

She always used to fight with herself over if she enjoyed the way her hair hid away her earrings, but also served as a lazy day scarf in the winter…but now the back of her neck feels icy cold. The pad of a thumb absently dabs at the halo around her face, the tips downy soft and finely cut, nearly to the base of her skull. She can see the blue veins along the upper sides of where her hair is gone from her.

Gone. Just like that. There are no long, golden curls to cover her bruises, not a trace of the length of the hair she had been growing out since freshmen year of high school. She's bare, naked, and bleeding from the back of her head, and there is nothing she can do but stare at the remains of herself.

It's hard to move her left shoulder, her upper body begging her to stop, but she slowly manages to lift her hand from the sides of her damped temples to touch at the back of her neck, bending as best she can to still view herself in the mirror. Her fingers shudder at how cold she feels as she trails her fingertips down… that this is no trick of the dark or an imagined mask from the drugs pouring through her. She has to feel that it's gone.

When she barely places a finger over the base of her skull, she nearly blacks out from the pain. She can feel the medical tape and padding used to hold her skull tightly together. The point of impact where she had been dashed against… over and over…her eyes widen as she slowly traces the stitching…a tilt of her head, ever so gently, and it's there. A pattern of soon to be scars and the red, rusty grime of old blood, still tricking down her neck like a damp tongue of a shadow, thirsty, flying itself away from her bathroom to find her here, kneeling before a mirror, alone and scared.

_You're going to have to lie_ , the woman had told her.

_Lie?_ Beth wants to scream out.  _Lie about what? About who?_

The word crushes into her thoughts, and the world feels off kilter.

_Steve…who are you?_

She collapses back onto the bed and allows the mirror to drop to the floor in a splintering shatter. Hardly able to pull the sheets back around her with a single hand, Beth tries to return to that darkness in which she had awoken.

She had nearly died. Again. And this time…this time…Captain America didn't saved her.

Steve didn't save her.

So what did?

_The man that attacked me? I….I'm insane. This is it. They've finally locked me up._   _With my hair shaved…I've conformed to hospital standards and…_ Beth folds into herself, pulling her wrapped arm around her chest to bury her face.  _At the museum…I must've gone too far…I broke into Steve's apartment and…and…_

He lied. Her soldier lied.

It's staring her in the face, reflecting a whole distant universe away from now, maybe in that secretive, dark, startling view of Steve's eyes changing within the square view of a motorcycle's mirror. Maybe it was even before that. Maybe the whole time, she just…pretended to not understand. Subtle signs—so close to her face that she'd miss them like a kiss barely pressed to her cheek. Or maybe they were blinding signs, like the way a window opens into the night, the view of Coney Island freezing across the bay in drowning Christmas lights—like that day in the park, bleeding in the snow, or that gleam in his eye, or the way he'd just look at her—truly, wholeheartedly  _look at her_ — and sigh. She imagines herself from the viewpoint of a stranger on the subway that morning, watching her read Steve's letter, watching her throw herself closer and closer to the edge. Watching her sadness…Watching her mourn…

…because it couldn't go on forever. No, not even Earth's Mightiest Heroes could keep time away from them. Not even in their tiny bit of time that felt like so much more.

_Steve…_

The words write themselves around her enclosed world, reflected back at her through the silver slivers of a mirror shattered across the floor, in the cramped, rushed, familiar cursive that dissolves down her face into tears.

_The truth is…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Thank you so very, very, very much again. Like. Whoa. If you'd like, please review…perhaps let me know what you'd like to see next? We've got Steve and Natasha…We've got the antics of Bruce and Tony. We've got Secret Agent Clint over there. We could still further with Beth. Either way, this is gonna be good.
> 
> Thank you.
> 
>  
> 
> /this fic is update to date as of the latest chapter on Fanfiction.net authored under "KayMoon24" as of 6/26/2014/
> 
> Thank you so very much all of you guests and A03 authors that have left kudos and dared to read my novel-like fanfiction up until this point. It sincerely makes my heart sing in happiness to be recongized for all of the time, energy and hard work placed into this story. c:


	42. Her Winter Soldier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: GUESS WHO IS BACK WITH LOTS OF FREE TIME AND READY TO HAVE SOME FUN AND ALSO HELLO HERE IS A LONG CHAPTER.
> 
> It's meeee. That...me. Yeah. Alright...good job, Kaley, I think they got the joke.
> 
> /clears throat/
> 
> So...you guys are all the very best readers for sticking with me. I'm very happy to say that I have a lot of free time as I JUST graduated and am focusing on getting back to what I once loved about writing fanfiction. Having some fun. Man. Isn't that great to say sometimes?
> 
> PLEASE ENJOY.
> 
> I'm sorry if the chapter gets a bit confusing, but I was limited in what information and perspective I can offer per character. Ross will be further fleshed out. And Beth is...well... Until I get to more...exploratory...chapters...girl is gonna have to just deal with it.
> 
> Lord. I hope she makes it.
> 
> /wiggles eyebrows/
> 
> TONY AND BRUCE ARE NEXT. AS IF I DIDN'T MIX UP THEIR LIVES ENOUGH.

Two things are a constant in Beth's small, dark world: Doctor Ross, or so says her nametag, and the threat that she will soon be killed.

The doctor is with her for nearly all hours of the day. Or night. It's impossible to tell when the static, sterile hospital room cages her, not to mention different measurements of pills and morphine and other drugs that Beth pretends aren't coursing through her body. But Beth's constant, unfriendly companion, a woman who only says her name is Ross and demands to be addressed only as such, keeps her well informed of all the rest of the details Beth can't see.

Once she was coherent, a few misunderstandings where made extremely clear: she is being held, "comfortably", in a place somewhere in Germany. Wherever they are, it's freezing, and it never stops freezing. The organization calls themselves "HYDRA". They're some type of seemingly ancient regime run by someone Beth actually recognizes: Head Secretary of the United States Defense, Alexander Pierce. What they want, Beth isn't entirely sure—but it has to do with—with—(she always forces the word, the image, the realization like a quick jab to the stomach) Steve, her Soldier, her… _Captain America_.

Beth blinks, the movement like a cleansing that rips the mask and face and warmth back out of her; she can't allow Steve in again—not now. Not with that—that monstrous man—lurking, somewhere, beyond the walls and door of this cell. She gets it now.

She's alone here. And Steve isn't coming to get her.

He probably doesn't know that places like this exist.

What a U.S. Official is doing _here,_ with _these_ people, Beth couldn't even pretend to know, even less with his wanting of Captain Steve Rogers. What she does understand? They got her instead. And that, apparently, is a very, very unlucky thing.

Of course, she hasn't seen Pierce. She only sees Ross. But Pierce is whispered constantly between the orderlies. This is how Beth figured out Ross had some kind of unspoken authority over the staff. They fear her. They also, to great confusion, fear Beth. Most refuse to look her in the eye. Even fewer speak to her. Not that Beth had much to ask, or tell them. There is a camera that rotates back and forth across the bedroom, its blue light bleeding into the hours Beth spent staring straight back at it, as if she could find an answer reflected back in its face.

It's a waiting game now and it is excruciatingly clear how useless Beth is to HYDRA, and they're desperately aware of it.

Between the long stills of silence, there's only Doctor Ross. And her endless, _endless_ questions.

At what Beth guesses to be night, Ross is changing tubes, scratching notes with pen and paper to a clipboard. She's dark-haired, extremely pale skinned, with high cheekbones. It's clear that she's older than Beth—maybe even her mother's age. Tiny wrinkles dot the corners of her eyes, the silver-moon grey of her hairline. She even has a shoulder bag like her mother, close to her at all times. But Ross isn't much of a talker. She isn't much of a care taker, either. Her hands are cold. Her movements to correct Beth's arm or take her blood are painful. But there is something about her. Something about the way Ross holds herself—it's so strange, but Beth can swear…she's looking for something. Maybe something in Beth or on Beth…maybe something…emotional? Beth clings tightly onto this fragile speculation that she could be worth something to Ross. It's all she has left.

"Are you ready to begin again?"

Beth breathes deeply. Her throat feels so much better without the tube. "Yes."

"Do you know where you are?"

Beth shifts from her seat along the side of the bed. They're given her a black turtle-neck uniform, a white coat like Dr. Ross's. Once handcuffed to the bedrails, Beth finds herself able to move around with a bit more freedom—well, as much freedom that being clad in only thick black socks and loose-fitting sweatpants allows. A black sling holds her shattered right hand, her _dominate_ hand that, without its use, cuts her off from strange basic controls, like eating with precision, or brushing her teeth without getting toothpaste all over the sides of her cheeks, as well as her sore and useless rest of her arm.

"Being held prisoner." Beth finally answers, altering her response after coming up with other, less flattering terms to describe her terrible fate.

"And do you know who I am?"

"Ross."

"And what do I do?"

"Make sure I'm not dead. Yet." Beth tacks on the last word. She's pretty sure she'd be trembling or crying by now, but another side effect of lapsing in and out of shock is that it's hard to gather the will to crumble when nothing happens, locked, 24/7, in a single room. In a way, it's almost…peaceful. A seriously fucked up kind of peaceful, but, it's no New York City.

"And you are aware that you are here because of a failure on the Avenger Initiative's behalf?"

"I went to Steve's apartment on my own. That isn't true."

Ross clears her throat lowly. "You are aware that you are here because of a failure on the Avenger Initiative's behalf?"

Beth bristles—the hairs on the back of her neck rise. This is it. This is always what happens. Ross won't fucking stop telling her lies.

"What do you want me to say?! 'Yes'?!" Beth raises her voice—useless as she understands it now—the walls are pretty much soundproof—beyond—beyond that— _scream_ —"I said no!"

Ross sets her teeth—startlingly white and perfect—into a row. Writes something down on her notepad.

"From what we've monitored, you've mentioned Natalia Romanova's name many times. You are an associate with Fury and his Agents, for whatever apparent skills you fail to show us you possess, but you do know her. Would you consider her some type of—"

"How about we talk about that _monster_ that tried to kill me in Steve's apartment, huh? What about him?" Beth locks her eyes to Ross's. "When you leave, you go to him, don't you?"

Ross sets down her pen. "James is of no concern to this inter—"

"He tried to kill me, Ross! What does this fucking matter?! He'll probably just do it again."

The doctor holds her mouth still. In the quiet that lasts between them, Beth can faintly hear the grind of teeth on teeth. _"Would you kindly stop interrupting me you insufferable brat?"_

Beth jerks back. The words fall out of her mouth, mumbled. "I'm sorry, Doctor Ross."

Ross seems unmoved. Quickly, she stands, collects her things and turns for the door. Beth leaps at the opportunity—she can't stand to be here alone for another endless hour.

"Wait! Wait!" Beth scrambles to her feet, the chain of the handcuff rattling in protest. "Don't leave, don't leave, please don't leave me!"

Ross halts. "Will you listen?"

If only Beth could slap herself, she sounds so, _so_ pathetic, even to her own ears. But she can't do it. She can't be alone for one more cruel, dauntless hour. "Yes." But the rest rushes out, hard and angry, as if she couldn't stand holding it in any longer. "As long as you don't leave me alone again. You have to stay. Stay until _I_ tell you to leave!"

Ross turns back to face her, her gaze weary, but the deal seems made. "And you will answer my questions. The way I want them."

Beth drops her head, sinking back onto the edge of the mattress. "Fine."

"Good." Dr. Ross seems pleased, although the tight squeeze of the skin around her temples never quite leaves her. "Then we shall begin again."

Beth nods. She keeps nodding. She isn't sure what else she can possibly do. But this endless day is never truly over. And Ross continues to come back, time and time again, with a new round of information and lies to swallow. Beth has to accept this. This might be all her life is now. Locked in a room with only Dr. Ross for company.

_She misses her mother so badly._

* * *

Ross checks Question 346. "And you..." Suddenly, Ross's low tone is cut off by a sob.

The girl is crying. She's trying to keep herself together, but she is coming apart, slowly, like a string being tugged, a shirt unraveling. Her mouth is open in breathless, empty motions of dry heaving. Ross puts down her pen and inhales slowly through her nose.

The image before her is far, far too familiar.

"I believe we shall stop for now."

The girl looks up at her, her eyes wet and unseeing. How long had she been doing this? Was there a moment when she stopped listening? Did she have _any_ idea how important this all was? Ross felt she couldn't have made it any clearer without being overtly conspiratorial. She only had so much room to shimmy through before she was choked by her own collar of HYDRA. Besides, she couldn't give up decades of work over this idiot of a child.

"Did you hear me?" Ross asks quietly.

The girl nods, but with her erratic breathing, it is hard to be sure. Ross accepts this as a good enough response. "Would you like a drink?"

The girl- _Beth_ , Ross corrects herself, so tempting to just leave her nameless, but Richard would scold her needlessly if she ever said it aloud-continues to nod. Just bobbing there. Clearly far away from this room.

Ross cannot help but feel anxious herself. She wants to leave, but yet...she clears her throat. A glance at the camera. She looks at Beth again, but Beth merely attempts to curl up. Her knees bouncing restlessly over the edge. The cuff chain clinking against the handrail. She says nothing.

"Would you like to choose the next topic of conversation?"

Beth stills. She glances at Ross, her face red, and lowers her eyes. "...Okay." Her voice scratches out.

"Excellent. I shall be back."

The over the top reaction Ross had expected from the suggestion of her leaving doesn't come. Surprisingly. The girl just sits there, staring in blank space. Quickly, the doctor smooths her skirt and jacket before she makes her way down the hall.

* * *

Beth jerks when she realises that Ross isn't seated in the chair before her. An awareness that her promise was broken, but yet... _Finally_ , the cycle is over. All Ross does is drill her now. She has to be. Drilling her with information about a company called SHIELD and senseless documents about other Agents and Officials and Governmental crap and it just all goes so far over Beth's head, it isn't even funny.

But Beth is alone again. Chained to a bed. With a pounding head and two near broken arms.

And for half a moment, she wishes that man would have killed her.

 _Stop._ She squeezes her eyes tight. No one has hurt her yet. If anything, they are distantly nice. Pain medication and food-not good food or anything- but they aren't starving here. And there was always Ross, whom Beth had become used to. But what else could she turn to now? How could she trust anything Ross said? But… what if Ross was all she had? Could it be that no one else would deal with her? Could it be she just got l _ucky_ —lucky that Ross didn't daily tear out one of her bottom teeth, or break her fingers in her left hand one by one until Beth confessed out of sheer misery? Nothing about this place lined up with any horror movie or political prison flick Beth had ever seen before. Surely, there are better things than wishing to die here... and if she did, she'd never see her brother again. She hugs herself tighter. Or her mom.

 _But God_ , she allows herself to admit, t _here has to be something better than this._

The door opens. Beth instantly untangles herself, to try to appear...normal. Something like that. Useful. Not completely, utterly damaged. Her fingers fly to her hair to fix that, too, but It's so strange to not feel the fall of her hair over her shoulders or back. She resists the urge to not touch her hair constantly, the short crop of it lean to her skull. Ross had yelled at her once before over touching her head too often. She'd only make herself bleed again, and this time, Ross had warned her, she'd just let her lie in it.

"Hello again," Ross greets mutely. Her hands, for once, aren't heavy with papers or charts. She is holding two cups of something hot. Beth traces the swirl of steam with her eyes. "I'm back."

Beth isn't sure how to react. Happy? Surprised? It's clear that something stirs in her every time she sees Ross. She just isn't sure if that is entirely safe. "...You are."

Ross looks uneasy as she stands, her controlled face suddenly leaning towards the awkward spectrum of social interaction. "Before I had asked if you wanted a drink. I realized once I had arrived at the break station that you didn't clarify exactly what it is you wanted, so...I just made you what I found."

Beth tentative sniffs the air. Usually the room is so quiet and stale, but now it smells like chocolate. Something minty, too, with cream. The images float into her mind soothingly; the cafe smelled like this not too long ago...she made hot sugary drinks on the daily, smiling to regulars... "Mint hot cocoa?"

Ross raises a brow. "You are familiar with the drink?"

Beth feels caught. Should she lie? What would Ross want from her this time? She decides to smash a bit of it all together. "I have experience in, uh, drink mixing."

Ross nods. "Ah, that's right; your file says you were a barista."

Beth shrinks. Were. So much for that. "...Yeah. Basically."

Ross looks faintly amused. "You have answered my questions enough today. So, you can control the rest of our conversation as you prefer." She brings Beth the drink, careful to not let their hands touch, and then settles back into her chair a few feet away.

Beth holds the cup close, letting the warm seep into her core. "Uh...thanks, I guess."

The following silence is a bit...much. Ross crosses and uncrosses her legs, clearly uncomfortable.

Beth gives up. It's one thing to deal with Ross. It's another to force another person to be here just for an artificial chance to feel...human. She doesn't want this anymore. The drink was nice, though. "Look. You can leave."

Ross raises an eyebrow suspiciously. "But that was not the deal."

"Yeah." Beth says drily. "I don't really care anymore." She drops her eyes to her drink, allowing herself to let go into that numbness once more. This time there doesn't even need to be drugs coursing through her. What did it matter if Ross gave a damn or not? "The deal is off, Dr. Ross. You, uh, can leave whenever you want."

Ross takes a careful sip of her drink, her ring finger tapping at the cup nervously. "I'd prefer to continue what we had planned."

Beth eyes her. "You sure?"

Ross sips again—then makes a face. The expression so disgusted that Beth cracks a half smile. "What?"

Ross coughs faintly, and holds the cup further away from her. "This is dreadful! I knew I shouldn't have just let the water boil without a timer."

Beth glances at her drink. Takes a small sip. Grimaces. It is pretty bad, bland almost, but, it's warm, and tastes minutely of chocolate, so, she isn't letting it go anytime soon. "Wow. This is pretty bad."

"This was not intentional. I want you to understand that, Beth." Ross sets the cup down onto the floor. "I don't," she fiddles with the rest of her confession before deciding to be open. "I don't cook often."

"Really?" Beth considers the idea of how someone could live in a place like this. "Is there some kind of mess hall?"

"No."

"Or kitchen?"

"That is debatable."

"So, what, microwaves all the time?"

Ross smirks. "For me, anyhow. I find no interest in the domestic."

Beth sips again, attempting to relax. However way she can. "No offense, Doctor, but I can tell."

Ross matches her sip, peeling the cup from the floor and drinking without complain. Beth raises her eyebrows. "I thought you just said you hated it?"

Ross seems unnerved, like for once, she is being tested. "I...don't know why I did that. You're right. This is terrible, but I felt the need to do something or else I would feel out of place."

Beth nearly smirks again. The once so cold doctor suddenly so unsure. "Do you, like, not do this often?"

"You're being too vague."

Beth resists the urge to scoff. _Being too vague, do you even listen to yourself?_ "Like...I don't know...you do get together and have like, evil-tea-time, with, your, uh, friends?"

Ross looks nonplussed. "Friends." She smiles a tight smile. "I am sure you have noticed that I am one of the top handlers here, Beth. Do you think I have time to sit and drink with my associates?"

Beth raises her good arm in attempt to show surrender. "I'm sorry, I just...sorry. I was...kidding, I guess." Beth flusters. "Look—why are you doing this?"

Ross studies her. "Talking with you?"

"Yes." Beth answers, her voice taking an edge. "Pretending to care?"

"Pretending." Ross muses. She picks up the cup again and drinks. "You sound so sure of yourself."

Beth flexes the tender knuckles of her broken hand, a reflex of what she wishes she could do. Stand up and throw something at the doctor for toying with her. Maybe even the drink. But she holds the cup tightly. She pushes away the one good thing she had associated to hot drinks. The day she met Steve. Sharing verbal stabs with him over stupid coffee humor.

"Well, I've had time to think." Beth says coldly. "And you have to go and come back from somewhere. This is just another job for you, isn't it."

"Yes. This my job. But I do not have to spend time with you, or bring you drinks. That I did on my own."

Beth lowers her eyes to the floor. "How kind of you."

Silence.

Ross keeps her eyes to her cup. "Beth...may I ask you a personal question?"

Beth burrows her brows. "'Personal'? Don't you and your little organization know everything about me? Isn't that why you're always so angry with me?"

Ross withdrawals. "There are some things data cannot offer, Beth."

Beth wishes she had more to push back with, but she's trapped here. And Ross is the only one that speaks to her anyway…oh, what the hell. "You've used my name about three times now. I guess you're serious, huh?"

"I am trying to be reasonable with you. I know that...this is a complicated matter. I know you do not wish to accept what has happened." Ross says quickly, her eyes averted. "I am afraid that perhaps my years here have removed me from what you are going through."

 _Years?_ Beth tucks that one away for later. Hopefully. If there is a later. "Okay. Go on."

Ross slowly closes her fingers around the cup, holding it delicately, giving it a gentle squeeze. "When you were with Captain Rogers, did he ever mention his...I'm sure he'd refer to them as 'friends'."

Beth swallows. Steve always had so many friends. Friends that made Beth nervous and excited and almost feel…welcomed. What were they to her now? Enemies? Her heart squeezes uncomfortably as she thinks them; the older man with a taunt face and short blond hair. The giggling one with her cellphone addiction and, Jane-that was her name, _Jane_ -that seemed so earnest to be friends, their names sliding in and out of focus, but their faces clear as they had stared at her from around the table. "Yeah. He did."

Ross's eyes strike Beth's hotly. "Do you recall any particular names?"

Beth breathes out through her nose, unsure of how to play this out. Ross obviously was searching for someone in Beth's memories. But to what end? Another test? "That…depends. I met...three women, one being Natasha, and two men."

"Two men?"

"Yes." One, beyond a doubt, was obviously Thor. The fucking Lord of Thunder, that Beth was too blind to see. Ronda had convinced her of this now. His glowing eyes, his strength, his strikingly handsome face. His strange manner of speaking. "Thor. And...uh." Beth struggles for the other man. The lean one with tense, powerful looking arms. "I don't know the other. Something...maybe with a K?"

Ross's eyes almost seem...captivated. Her entire body steeled, her drink posed. Her voice seems distant. "I see."

Beth scrambles to give Ross what she wants. The older woman had never looked so vulnerable. Beth _had_ to catch that line. She had to make the jump. This was important. This could possibly keep her alive. "Uh, uh," Beth carefully shifts her arm in her sling. "There was..God, I know there was one more."

Ross clicks her eyes to Beth's once again. "Yes?"

Her brain is wracked, digging through piles and piles of hours that had made up her life within the past week. "He was...Steve said he was…" Suddenly, Beth's eyes widen. Of course. That doctor. Steve would have mentioned that at the table, meeting him for the first time. So it wasn't the man with the arms. It was...someone else. "A doctor." Beth finally answers.

Ross blinks. She sets the cup down. "Thank you." She says quietly.

Beth can feel the hook deep in her spine. That doctor friend of Steve's. Surely, that was it. This meant something to Ross. But what, Beth couldn't be sure. "I...I…" Beth struggles. "Steve never told me his name. But he...he was kind to him. He obviously helped Steve a lot. Probably all of them."

She feels stupid confessing what she had thought all along about Steve's absent friend. But it's all she's got. But maybe..that could be enough. Maybe...she could be useful without being what HYDRA wanted her to be.

If it matters to Ross. If Ross really could...care.

The doctor pulls her fingers through her dark hair and, once again, her eyes seem clear. "Thank you." She glances at the door. "I'm afraid I must go soon."

"Sure," Beth says tiredly. She takes a sip of her drink again, the warm liquid making her feel a bit better. "Uh...thank you for, um." Beth can't define what had just happened. She drops her eyes. "Sorry if that wasn't what you wanted to hear."

Ross is at the door, but she doesn't turn to face Beth again in her usual way of departing. "No, Beth." Her tone seems unusually content. "Thank you."

And with that, Ross is gone. The faint stream of her drink along the floor the last remaining evidence that Beth didn't dream their conversation.

Beth settles back onto the bed and slowly finishes her drink, lurking through her memories, for faces and names and imaginary ties to what Ross could want. Was it what Ross wanted? Or HYDRA? There wasn't any mark on a pad. It all seemed entirely in Ross's head alone.

Maybe, Beth thought to herself, feeling trapped and alone made her think in this crazy way.

Perhaps, it was just all in her head, too.

* * *

She doesn't answer her Com. And Elizabeth always, always answer her calls. Richard is convinced it's in her blood to be as astringent humanly possible.

Hell, it's probably why the orderlies joke that she isn't even human. Just like The Winter Soldier.

 _Ugh._ The gossip around here is enough to make Richard nauseous from the tedium of smaller minds. Perhaps Elizabeth's no nonsense attitude is one of the many reasons they could get along so well across the years. Except for, of course...the locked door before him.

Betty was never exactly open, physically or emotionally. And yet. Something was wrong. He could feel it.

Richard stops at the door. Knocks. Once.

It weakly draws open.

As he steps inside, Richard can barely recognize where he is standing.

It can't possibly be Dr. Elizabeth Ross's room.

It's been destroyed.

The floor is covered in ringlets of shattered glass. Ruined books and dust covers litter the floor. Simple pictures are gone, ripped apart with what looks to be bare hands.

He finds her sitting at her desk, shoulders hunted, head folded, twisting aimlessly.

"Betty?.." Richard asks, his tone a mix of relief and concern. Elizabeth doesn't move.

"She's going to die," is all she says, her voice distraught. "I'm out of time."

Richard places a hand on her shoulder, his head low. "What do you need?"

She pulls away from his touch. Richard allows his hand to fall back his side. "I...I don't know."

Richard smiles sadly. "You've never said that before in your entire life."

Elizabeth turns to him, her eyes tight. "Richard...I believe this is it."

He looks around the room. He's never really been in here before, beyond maybe one or two times. Too little, too late, he supposes. "Yeah, I know, Bet. I know."

She turns away, lifts up her hands, freckled with cuts and veins. She had always hated how they looked, even in her youth. "I hear their whispers about me." Elizabeth murmurs, slowly closing her fingers over her palms, unwilling to look at him. "Do you believe them? Do you think I am a fool for him?"

Richard considers this. "You've been with Barnes for years. It's an honor that no one else will be able to understand. Or replicate. One of a kind, from how I see it."

He sounds so earnest. But Richard has always put up with her. She nearly believes him. She looks up, fully, her eyes bleak and tired. "You didn't answer my question."

There are fine lines in his face that expose his age. He is nearly a decade younger than Elizabeth, and yet he is so delicately aged. Just like her. And everything he has left behind. Elizabeth studies his face affectionately. Had she never noticed before how handsome his face was, framed by his glasses, or how dedicated his ear? Did his wife notice such details? Elizabeth feels she could count the soft feather of grey crowning around his window's peak. So many years between them...her only friend.

"I have a son." Richard tells her solemnly. "I would die for him."

Elizabeth lets the weight of Richard's consent wash over her as she drops her head. "Thank you." Her voice feels tight, exposed, a raw wound crafted from what she can never truly be. "Thank you, Richard."

"Anything for you, Betty." He reaches a finger under her chin to bop her to look up at him. She cannot help but give a small laugh as she pushes his arm away. Somehow, someway, Richard had always managed to bring a human lightness into this miserable place.

"You tease!"

Richard grins lazily at her, rolls his shoulder, fixes his frames as they slide down the thin outline of his nose. "You started this a long time ago."

Elizabeth grasps his hand and presses a light kiss onto the back of it. "Yes. I need to finish this. For both our sakes."

Richard studies her face for a long time.

"I know you will." He returns, his voice curt, and the answer simple.

* * *

Hours. Hours. Hours. Beth isn't sure how long, once more, it's been. Her quiet jail cell is only punctuated by when Ross arrives and...

"You are coming with me, Miss Ore." Ross clarifies bluntly. Today it is all 'Miss Ore'. If their shared cups of terrible cocoa meant anything in their last meeting, Ross certainly doesn't show it. After their usual cycle of questioning, Beth isn't prepared for the sudden change.

Beth faintly considers the idea. "As in, leaving this room to be tied down in another? Not what I really want, right?"

"Would a bit of walking about feel good to you?" _  
_

"What?" Beth stills. She didn't entirely expect that to work. Everyone else ignores her with a cult-like religiousness.

"If you want to be considered an Agent of SHIELD, you have to act the part. You can't just stew there. Take a deep breath and I will return to unlock you. Do not look at the camera monitoring us."

Beth keeps her neck straight, eyes centered away as she is told. "What are you doing?" Her voice drops. "Is this a test?"

"No, but you can pretend it is; you're going to accompany me today. I will unlock you but I insist that you stay minimal in your movements. You can walk on your own but you must stay within arm's reach of me at all times. We're going to be completing my rounds, and that includes examining James."

Beth's heart skips. "Wh—You mean the man that attacked me? Are you fucking kidding me?! No! There is no way I'm going near him."

In a single, smooth turn Ross faces Beth again. Her face is just as rigid, but her lips slack into a tense frown, as if she's already had enough of dealing with the blonde, and their companionship had just started. "Believe me. This you'll want to see."

Beth shudders the word. _"No."_

"It will, 'make you feel better', as Richard would like me to say."

Beth looks around the empty room, her good hand already shifting to hold the sling tighter to her side. "…I don't have a choice, do I?"

"You catch on fast, Miss Ore." The doctor seems to relax at the confession. "My colleague said I should at least try to make you— _comfortable_." Her nose tightens on the final word. "But Richard was always far too doting. You'll find that we, too, could get along well, if you just keep yourself collected. Can you do that? As my patient?"

Beth takes in the woman before her. She's much older than her, that wasn't too hard to guess, but there is more than just age. The padded coat, the sharp heels, the curl of her dark hair. The way her lips curve outwards into an ever refined scowl. That bag she always had, like it was connected to her. What was so important to have that thing at all times? Beth felt like she hardly saw Ross without it.

"I'm… _your_ patient?" So it _was_ true. Maybe this place really was an asylum, if Beth can just pretend such a thing could exist here, for just a moment, it could begin to make sense. Sense is logic. Logic is clear thinking. Clear thinking would mean…. _escape._ "So…so…why are we going to see…" Beth has to focus on not just referring to that man for exactly what he was—a senseless, _horrifying_ —"him?"

"Because if Pierce expects me to monitor both you and James I'm going to have to make some compromises. He'll understand, I'm sure. Also, I apologize for snapping at you earlier." She sets her teeth into a stern smile." See? Now, hurry, hurry."

The cuff is unlocked. The door is opened and Dr. Ross picks up her already swift speed as Beth nervously trails behind, her left arm wrapped tight around herself. The hallway is empty and the lights dim. So maybe it really was night time… _What are we doing out so late?_

"So…so…. _Head Secretary of Defense_ , Alexander Pierce—he's…he controls that thing?"

"Yes. Because the idiots in Basic think that cognitive repercussions don't exist, and isn't the definition of insanity to repeat the same action over and over expecting a different outcome? It's insanity they're performing. So many times I've had to sit there and watch the leaver go down over him and no one wants to believe that it isn't _working_ anymore. I've been working with the entire staff for years and Pierce still doesn't believe that what I'm performing makes sense. It is what's necessary. The human mind is delicate function of neurons that are tossed around and beaten with every electronic wave burst through him and they expect him to return to his glory state at the end of it all. The reality is that it's getting worse."

"Would you stop that?" Beth hisses out, aggravated. This is the 'a _re you aware you were mistreated by the Avengers Initiation bullshit'_ all over again. Like a code. Like some secret double-talk between Ross's job and Ross's less than direct advice. "If you want to talk to me, you'll have to talk to _me_."

"Sorry." There is almost something like a sight look of approval along Ross's angular face. "I feel as if I can talk to you because you have no idea what's going on. It's rather nice. Besides, you and I are both aware that you are no real Agent of SHIELD. Pierce is delusional as ever."

"SHIELD—What _is_ that?"

"Precisely. Along with you, supposedly, not knowing who Rogers was."

"I—I didn't…" Beth begins carefully, unsure how to explain that she was stupid enough to to investigate Steve by herself.

"No," Ross suddenly snaps, peering over Beth. "Don't ever say that. You can't just _answer_ questions too hastily. If they think for a second that you've given them all you know they'll kill you without a second thought." She leans away, face taught. "There are no prisoners with HYDRA."

 _So I've heard,_ Beth thinks,but she feels the rush of adrenaline spike anyway, pins and needles under her heels. "What does it matter what I say, Doctor Ross? You're the only person that talks to me. It's like…I'm invisible. They don't even care that I'm here?"

"You get used to it," Ross agrees.

"I don't even know your first name, either." Beth attempts, once more, for some sense of company. It was a stupid and desperate act, like something from a bad Stockholm syndrome movie.

The approval is gone. "Can't get too attached, Miss Ore."

"Figures." Beth allows. "Steve never said the name of his friend that would be waiting for me, either."

Ross chuckles dryly. An actual soft laugh from the back of her throat. "You cling to that story extraordinarily well. Rogers is in the wrong business for friends. And so are you."

They're before the door, some kind of level—D8 – R3— signifier. If the letters actually indicted a depth and floor level, how deep underground where they?

Beth holds her arm closer to herself. Ronda. Her mother. Her brother. Did they know what happened to her yet? Would she ever seen them again?

"You'll be meeting Pierce soon." Ross fills the silence calmly. "Sooner than I had hoped, if I must be honest with you."

"I wondered when I finally would." Beth replies dully. "I…I suppose I just…tell him the truth?"

Ross pauses, fingers to the keypad. "Have you listened to a word I said? You have to lie."

Beth's grows kit together in exasperation. "About what? I'm telling you the truth!"

"Data is slowly being leaked in about you. You have to try." Ross turns again, one hand tightly holding to her medical bag. "You can't allow yourself to be afraid of him."

" _Pierce_ isn't the one I'm afraid of, Doctor."

The doctor's cold eyes inspect Beth one more time, as if debating what she is doing, but the motion is gone in a flash. "You are wrong."

* * *

The door opens. A hiss of steam from the heavy locks. Beth steps back. From the doorway she can make out the vastness of the chamber inside. The temperature is deceivingly colder than the regulated hallways. The room is more like a time capsule than another medical room. Nothing like Beth's. The walls are filled with cabinets and metal, heavy looking equipment and...Beth feels her blood freeze in her veins. The man. That man. That _monster._

Beth is pushed inside by Ross, a hand under her good arm to guide her in without much resistance. In truth, there wasn't anything much to be alarmed about. The man was lying on his back across a large, metal operating table. His eyes closed. His face relaxed. Sleeping, Beth considered. But his face...

 _His face_...Beth takes a long moment memorize the details: jaw locked, long brown hair twisted and knotted to the side of his face. The mask that had hidden his mouth exposed, dull, pale skin, faintly covered in unshaven dark stubble. He looks more dying than dangerous.

"He will not hurt you." Ross forces her further still. "Trust me."

Beth breaks away and walks backwards, presses her back to the wall, refusing to come any further. She takes in the chamber once more. Their voices echo back and forth as if reinforced by layers upon layers of plated steel. The room seems more and more like an all-in-one isolated personnel bay. There is a sink against the wall, sat between more cabinets of canned goods and other chemical looking containers. Four large computer screens hang above a large, mechanical looking chair at the center of the room.

"I came here because you said I didn't have a choice. If I don't have to get close to him, than that is my prerogative."

"Suit yourself," Ross thankfully allows. She flows into the room without hesitation and quickly begins what Beth can only assume is her usual rotation of making sure that the man was…still alive. She sets her medical bag down and washes her hands. Adjusts her coat.

Beth silently watches as Ross slides on gloves and carefully moves the flat of her hand to touch the man's forehead. She frowns, almost angrily, and moves on. She grasps at his human arm and checks the dead weight of the metal one without much fuss. When the man makes a low, pained sound, she stops.

Instantly, the woman that Beth had known as Dr. Ross seems spirited away. She looks almost alarmed, crossed at herself, and she quickly touches the monster's face, a soft movement that twists Beth's insides. It reminds her of how her mother might touch her face and…

_…Oh my God._

It's so painfully obvious, exposed to possibly Beth and Beth alone, but Ross...Ross _cares_ about him, this...mindless... _empty_...cares that he lives through the next plight. Cares that he continues his missions. More than just her job. Cares far more than she seemed to care about Beth. The blonde locks down her paranoia.

Ross was all she had, even if that meant her only source was...probably dedicated to a murderer. Probably...slightly deranged in her methods.

 _Years_ , Beth reminds herself. _Ross had said she had be working here for years._

With a low, suppressed moan, more animal sounding than man, the monster is upright. Beth is ripped from her thoughts, startled at his suddenly wakefulness.

Listing to one side, the man appears almost intoxicated. Ross carefully places the soft, flat palm of her hand to center him—Beth's killer, the man coated in black, without a mouth or expression, that clearly wanted her _dead_ —and he can hardly sit up.

Ross seems keen to answers Beth's unspoken observations. "He doesn't look like much now, does he?"

Beth's breathing slows, but her eyes sprint the length of the man's body, the muscles of his arms, the length of his hair, her thoughts screaming that _this is the man_ , this shallow breathing, hunched over form, _the soldier that attacked her._ And yet. And yet. _How?_ How could the short time between the monster then and the man now make such short work of him?

"You don't believe me, do you?" Dr. Ross intones mildly. "You'll think he'll listen no matter what I tell you. No matter how damaged or tired, you truly think he is that inhuman?"

Beth resists the urge to nod. _Yes. That is exactly what is going to happen._

"Shall I prove it to you?" Ross carefully pulls her hand away from the man's side, forcing him to support himself. Ross places herself directly in front of the man's face and says, "Fetch me a cup of water, comrade." Ross lightly points a finger at the sink. "Halfway full."

Beth turns to stare at the man, refusing to blink, refusing to miss a single movement. But he doesn't move. At least, not at first.

It is almost as if Ross's words are falling from a high place, like rushing water over a mountain cliff, or a water basin sinking through a river bed of flat stone. That is the only way Beth can describe what it is like to see just how slowly the order seems to reach the man. Slowly. Patiently. His eyes adjust first, drifting his head upwards until they find what they are looking for: the sink. Then, he places the palm of his hands onto his thighs. Then he stops moving once more. Like an old car. He stalls. Suddenly, a leg is on the floor—followed by the other—and the man is standing. Beth cannot help but to take a step back, no matter how slow the movement.

The height of him, the weight of his footstep. Even the way his hands dangle limply at his sides. There is no mistaking it: _this is the man in the mouthless mask._

But there isn't an electricity in the air this time. No calculated breathing or searching blue eyes.

The man before her now is pale, already dripping with sweat along his hairline, like the act of getting water was already too great a task. His mouth barely opens, but his breathing is tight in the quiet of the chamber. He lists again, unbalanced, and his eyes flutter for a moment before, with a horrible clattering of bones and metal on title, he falls.

The length of his body and arms are wide and long. The fall would have nearly been at Beth's feet had she not stood back. She simply stares at the body on the floor, tense, waiting: a trick, a single wrong movement, and this man would pounce on her. _This can't be real._ This can't be all there is to her attempted killer. Beth's entirely head feels stuffed with cotton, fuzzy and dense. Almost distant. She didn't used to be this way, she can faintly find that feeling, that compassion she had for someone that had fallen... An old man at the cafe... Ronda after one too many…. catching herself on some stairs once or twice. Stev…

But, in the distant hum of the chamber, with the monster balled at her feet, Beth only feels numb.

 _This man is so...pathetic._ She almost wants to laugh, mirthless, cruel, _just like me._

"You keep telling me that I shouldn't be afraid of him." Beth's voice weavers nervously. But she boldly continues on. "And I don't think I can ever not be afraid of him, but..." she gingerly touches the back of her head. The bandages there. She stares back down at James. The sweat down his face, staining his shirt as his labored breathing echoes against the steel corners of the room. "But fine." She searches for a reason to not start kicking the man before her. Again and again with a deep, passionate fury...but she merely feels the trickle of a distant pity. Another time before all of this...when she wanted to be a doctor, too. "I believe you."

Dr. Ross's eyes pool into Beth's, searching, and seem to be satisfied with what she finds. "Good girl. I believe you can better understand now."

The unasked question burns in her stomach. "Is...is this what Pierce plans to do with me...if he doesn't kill me?"

Dr. Ross's face hardens again. "No. You will be killed. Unquestioningly. This process for my patient has been decades in the making and Pierce, clearly, will not stop it now. You are not him."

Beth considers this, surprisingly calm, with all this talk of her death. "Decades?"

"This is what he is like when he is not Activated." Ross informs her. The doctor scrunches down, carefully gaining hold over the man on the floor, helping him sit up once more.

Activated. Ross makes the soldier seem like a wind-up toy. Or, worse, a 1960s' B-movie with long winded speeches about communism and sleeper agents and other stuff that was so preposterously insane that it was laughable then as it was as a geek-show to the most current generation. But then again, B-movie plots also included aliens—and Beth had already seen one of America's largest cities crumble to its knees in horror at that new found reality.

"Aren't soldiers basically soldiers all the time?" _Just like Steve was._ Beth winces, re-focuses herself. She can't allow Steve in now. Just Dr. Ross, and this…person…and Beth, locked under a lost mountain of ice. "How can someone be…practically two different people? With—what? A code? A drug?" Beth glances again at terrifying looking mechanical chair in the center of the room. "With that?"

James is sitting up now, but he looks unnerved at the women before him, as if he had just realized he wasn't alone. Or on the floor. His exhausted eyes trail around the room, stopping over Beth for only a moment, before casually moving on. He moves a hand-the human one-to grasp the arm of the doctor. For a second, Beth freezes, hearing the sound of bone snapping so clear in her ears she believes it real- but Ross isn't in any pain. If anything, her collected features seem softer. Ross returns the gesture by gently patting James' hand.

"Yes. Those are all logical theories, Ore. The real answer is far simpler, however. Time. It just takes time. He wasn't always like this. Records dating from July, 1947, state that he was once spirited and full of ire. Possibly even had a will to escape." Ross raises her hand to gently move the strands of hair that had stuck to his face through the night, sticky with sweat. "This is all that is left."

Beth looks at the man again, having to be held up by a woman half his height. A man three times her size, reduced to a weak, senseless object in this place. Studies Dr. Ross. Her motion are far more maternal that they should look, between lab coat and tubes and the dead look in the man's eyes.

 _1947_ …This can't be the man that nearly killed her. This man cannot possible be two entirely different people. Perhaps even a third—the boy from the newspaper. …Barnes? Yes. That is what it was. His name was James, too, but this man before her….could he be the man that had crushed her hand, torn muscle and bone, split her skull until it was a red stain on a kitchen wall?

"Do you see this tube?" Ross gestures to yet another human sized device along the chamber's edges. "It is called a Cryochamber. It offers a sort of stasis that freezes cells and brain matter into a state of mass suspension. It has been upgraded over the years as science has evolved to have other benefits but the one role remains absolute: agelessness."

"So…so if he's like this the whole time…how is he…'activated'?" Beth turns to study the machine—so cold, so dense and surreal-looking. It even has iron locks to hold own limbs from moving. A cage. Just like this entire building. Just like the entire recent moments of her life that landed her here. In a funny sort of way, she doubts that there are any self-help books could cover _any_ of this. If she ever gets to go home. If she ever gets to read again. She imagines what it might be like to sit in that chair. She imagines what it might be to be forced into that Cryochamber. Did he have any idea what is happening to him? She guesses James couldn't know any more than she does about her own fate.

_God, what is this place?_

"Beth." Dr. Ross collects the blonde's attention once more. There's a new line of tension in her face that sets Beth's heart to pick up speed. Sweat is starting to line under Beth's arms and along the back of her neck, itching her wounds. Something horrible happens in this room. Beth can only imagine what they've done to that man. Could it be….could _he_ be the scream that had accompanied her all this time? "Are you listening?"

Beth pulls away from her thoughts, unsure of what is to follow. "Yes?"

The doctor heaves the soldier from off of the floor, staggering with his weight as she pulls him up to full height once more. She guides him back to sit along the table and places her hand cross his knee, silently. The man seems, once more, completely unaware of her. "I am going to keep moving my lips. And you are going to keep listening. Is that understood?"

Beth stiffens. She has to physically stop herself from looking around the room. "…Doctor?"

And then, slowly, Ross continues on lightly with a turn of her head. It's true, her lips still moving, but Beth can't make out anything she's saying at all. Ross just keeps herself pointedly at the door. She trails her fingers along the man's side and along his shoulder as she steps behind him.

Beth tenses, confused. "What are you doing?"

A beat. Beth breathes in. A beat. Ross slowly reaches into her coat and—

"I SAID YOU _CAN'T DO THIS_ —" Ross roars, her teeth baring hot and angry and there is a gun in her hands—no—the _man's_ hands—and— _BANG._

Beth understands what is happening before she even sees it: a gun. A gun being fired. And then, without warning, the man's arm, the metal one, is pointed upwards—BANG—a second shot, _where? Where?_ Beth drops to the floor, jabbing her tongue with her teeth, her body rippling in sore protest—resisting the urge to scream— _no pain, no pain,_ she thinks, _not at me?_ but she frantically looks around to find that the camera monitoring the control room was merely splinters of smoke and glass; BANG— the sound causing Beth to jump. In an effort to duck low, she smashes her head hard into the floor, stunning her. The room swirls for a moment and then returns: James hasn't moved. Not an inch. But the dark skin of a gun is still there, loose between his fingers. But Dr. Ross moves, stepping backwards, her hands suddenly raised above her head in a rigid, practiced manner. Her face is unreadable.

From the floor, Beth can only stare up at her in desperation. "Are you fucking _insane!?"_

"Don't act so naive." Dr. Ross keeps the mask of her face entirely collected, but she keeps her voice loud. Amazingly, the man still doesn't seem aware of it. The gun, the sounds, Ross, Beth sprawled on the floor, _any of it._ "I know who you are."

Beth scrambles to sit up, twisting her bad arm, and only answers Ross with a gasp of pain.

"What are you doing?! What the hell?" Beth twists to watch the smolder, small fire contained with the monitor. She's surprised alarm bells are already firing off. Beth can only guess that an army of hundreds of other dark suited men are racing down the halls right now and she's just lying here, dying, probably already dead, and why?! "Why did you do this?"

Carefully, Ross lowers her hand. She moves deliberately, exaggeratedly as she plucks the gun from the man's limp fingers, and steadily raises it once more, directly at Beth's stomach.

"You have taken me hostage." Ross answers decidedly. "How could I have known?"

Beth feels her chest crushing inwards, her lungs inhaling sharply. Her voices leaves her, a whispery rush of words: "Ross? What is going on?"

"Yes," Ross answers slowly. "You know Pierce is coming to get you. Tonight, in fact. Look through my files all you like. It doesn't change that you are going to die." With the barrel of the gun, Ross motions for Beth to stand.

Beth lifts herself unsteadily from the floor, but there is no were to move. The door behind her is sealed tightly. And that gun. The man. Ross has her pinned. Her mind races. Fear grips her stomach. Her legs shake. She swallows roughly, resisting the urge to cry. She can't cry. This is happening. This is the reality she is in and she can't run away from it anymore.

"Your thoughts are correct. The alarm has been triggered and this entire base is going to be over-riding the door to unlock in minutes." Ross carefully tilts her head. "Do you really think you can survive this? Even with all your training? As if Fury understands what HYDRA truly is."

Beth feels herself shaking with adrenaline. "I—I can barely move my _hands._ I've never fought anyone in my entire life. I—"

Ross clenches her teeth and Beth feels like she's entered into a new world as she watches Ross mouth the words: _'you are ruining everything you stupid girl'_. Her nose flared, her eyes glittering in barely contained rage.

Beth grips at her arm sling, defenseless. "What do you what from me?!"

Ross rolls the gun in her grip, finger laced through the trigger. Instantly, she drops her aim, but her eyes stay to Beth, wide and absolute. A pleading look wraps the faint smile along her jaw. With the overhead lights pouring down, her dark hair looks silver, like a crown of barbed wire. Ross shuts her eyes tight but two straight lines escape from their corners far too quickly— _tears_. Actual teals, draining down her face.

"There are moments in your life that will never leave you." Ross begins, clear and broken, into the shared space between the two women. "They're not just memories—they're places. Huge, consuming. You could live inside of them." Suddenly, Ross's pale eyes are open, engaging like end of a sword, shortening the dance between their gazes, all at once an aggressive open attack and a sorrow filled yield, forcing Beth to engage her words with a final, cutting grace: "Do you want to live inside of this moment for what remains of the rest of your life, Ore?"

 _No,_ the word appears and disappears in the space of Beth's mind. _No_ , it screams, clawing its way from the depths of her chest, past her lungs, into her throat, and out of mouth with a fight she had never felt before. _NO!_ The word leaves her lips easily. __  
  
Ross's thin lips force a sincere smile through her tears. "Good. Now, there are ten words that separate you from death. Ten seemingly random phrases. Would you like to know what they are?"

 _She's insane. She's insane_ , but hears herself whispering that familiar mantra, _but didn't I think that about myself once?_ She keeps those thoughts inside, because, right now, as stares at Ross and breathes, Beth couldn't imagine anything more beautiful than being given a second chance.

_I can't die here._

"Tell me."

Ross raises the gun without hesitation and Beth never takes her eyes from its sight.

"Good. First, basics. Three rules. Keep up. One: Once you start the phrase, you must complete the phrase. Saying the words out of order won't have any effect. Backwards, too. But each word in the proper phrase triggers a complete psychotic upheaval." Ross hesitates, her wary attention slipped from Beth to another thought. "Well, it used to not matter, but since Pierce has decided to ignore _years_ of my work—and continue the final assault on James' neurons, I couldn't even tell you what would happen. A guess? Total incapacitation—probably ranging from whatever word you stop on. Vomiting? Temporary catatonia? Anyhow…the important thing is that if you're in danger, if you need James, you must complete the phrase, or he'll be equally unless to you. Is that understood?"

Beth flickers her eyes to James, Ross, back to the gun. "Just words…can do _all_ of that?"

"Words are very powerful, Beth."

"I…" Beth forces herself to believe when she says, "Okay. I understand."

"Secondly: The transition to subordinance is completed by a call and response. The call is 'Soldier', his response is _always_ 'ready to comply'. This is absolutely vital. The exchange must be completed between you both—or else James' could be controlled by anyone. This will attach him to your orders."

"And if he doesn't respond?"

"Then you're very much in danger."

Beth lowers her head, her mouth dry. "And the final one?"

"Yes. The final one." Ross steels herself before Beth, shoulders held strictly, her chin lifted. "James Barnes, like any of the Avengers, is a living weapon. Never forget that. Never forget what they've—what _I've_ —done to him."

And with that, Ross walks smoothly from around the table, the gun still held tight in her grasp.

Beth lifts her head. "Why are you helping me?"

"Maybe I'm not." Ross flashes a bitter smile. "Maybe I'm damning you. What's that saying about the road of good intentions and all? Built on the bodies of the people like you and me?"

Beth flexes her sore fingers again. "But I can see it in you! You… _care_ about him! You care about—" Beth has to say it— _now is not the time to_ — "James! But he's a monster! A monster you're telling me you helped control?! You _know_ what he does to people!"

Ross's voice runs cold. She keeps the gun steady but moves ever so closer to Beth, closing the distance. "Do you really think in such pathetic attributes? You throw the word 'love' and 'monster' around and _you think you_ _understand?_ "

Beth knows Ross has the upper hand but she can't help but to step forward aggressively. "Then _help me_ understand! Who are you _really_ saving here?"

"I've been down here for fifteen years." Ross snarls. "Before that? I had a life, just like yours. I had friends and a father that I was afraid of disappointing and I worried about retirement plans. Now? I've just been lucky to be alive to see when Gods fell to earth, when men returned from the dead, stronger and faster than their youth, when space decided to chew up our military defenses like _popcorn_ —and you think that just because you're here now, I'm giving it up?"

One swift turn and Ross rounds on Beth, grabbing the girl's face with her open hand, forcing Beth to look her in the eye. "You change _nothing._ " A strangled inhale close to Beth's ears. The doctor's narrow features contour, twist, pale skin clinging to cheekbones; Beth cannot help but watch the emotional pendulum swing over Ross's face, half sane—as she whispers the next words: "This was all meant to happen. I've studied it. I've seen it. The patterns that cycle through history—you think specifics matter, but they don't. Merely outliners. If not me, than another doctor. If not you, then another spy…if not James….then someone else in his place."

Beth slips from Ross's grasp, her jaw aching, her heart erratic in her chest. Ross turns away from her, her clockwork pace unperturbed as she circles the room, returning to the man's side. Beth runs her fingers over the rough sewing of the sling weakly. Fifteen years Ross confessed to being here. _Fifteen years_. _What the hell was she talking about?! Was she…was she driven insane by this place?_

"If—if you think this doesn't matter, why try?"

"Because you're bringing _them_ here, like it or not, and now my work is going to be destroyed. I saw the device that you had in your hands on the camera. I've never seen anything like it before. Do you know what it was meant for?"

"No. But I just get the feeling you like asking me questions you know I can't answer," Beth retorts.

"Cute. Of course you wouldn't." The doctor's tone is almost despondent. "Regardless, the timer found within it means time is short. I figured if the enviable is coming, I could hold it off for a little longer. That is, if you can manage it. I have my doubts you can't."

"Thanks," Beth concedes shortly.

Ross breathes in deeply and collects herself again. "But you…you saved yourself." Ross confesses slowly. "You know the man for which this device is meant. And, in a way, he saved you, too. And…I can't…" Her voice shakes. "I can't allow that go to waste. I don't expect you to understand what I am doing. But I hope you can play along accordingly."

A bagging at the door. Beth's attention snaps to the pounding. Voices. Many of them. The two women hold their places. Her heart speeds double time, her breathing loud. Ross offers the gun. Beth can't bring her left arm to raise. The word feels disconnected from her. "Now?"

"Yes. Now. And for God's sake, I hope I'm right about you. And James. Quickly." Ross offers the gun once more. Her speech is more teeth than words when she orders: " _Take it from me."_

Beth's hand raises and the weight of the gun is locked between her grasp. "Ross—" Beth pants, the blood rushing to her head. "What are the words?!"

"Do you remember what I said? You have to be the one that says them. My bag, hurry."

Gun in hand, Beth runs to the bag and refiles through it, expecting a pile of papers, but she only draws up a single, crumpled, palm length note. The pounding on the door is louder. Quickly, Beth raises a gun at the chest of the man before her, forcing her fingers to lace around the trigger. She studies the note once more.

Longing, Rusted, Seventeen, Daybreak, Furnace, Nine, Benign, Homecoming, One, Freightcar

The fatal thought dances in her head— _if this goes wrong, I have to kill him._

_Longing, Rusted, Seventeen, Daybreak, Furnace, Nine, Benign, Homecoming, One, Freightcar_

_If this goes wrong, I have to kill him._

Her hand shakes. The gun's aim twists back, forth, along the man's chest. As if finally noticing the tension, the man— _James_ — looks up, straight into Beth's eyes—expressionless. Shallow. Attempting to focus on her.

She sucks a breath in.

Out.

"NOW! DO IT NOW!" Ross screams, her hands raised upwards.

Beth jams her eyes shut and screams the words. They rip from her mouth like verbal gunfire—one right after the other. Between the sound of the army outside, Ross screaming, and the drumming pound of her own heart beat inside of her head, Beth cannot hear the choking, frothing struggle as the man before he slides to the ground, convulsing screaming, clawing at the ground and then—

And then.

Beth squeezes her eyes open. She expected to be dead by now, but the world has stopped. She wets her lips. Keeps her gun trained on the man, lifting himself up by his hands and knees, before her.

"S—Soldier?"

Her killer looks up at her knowingly. His blue eyes dancing with this moment, focused on Beth and Beth alone.

"Ready to comply."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Thank you guys for all the support throughout the years. It means more than each of you know.
> 
> Stronger chapter soon. Thank you for reading, and, I hope, still enjoying. c:


	43. Fall Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Thank you, sincerely, from the bottom of this author's heart, for your patience. Update to follow within the week. It's been an interesting last few months, readers. I got to travel out of my country. I'm on a major college campus. Things have been…difficult. Please forgive me. Please enjoy…
> 
> Special thank you to my editor, TheDreamSmith and Not Enough Answers. Thank you all again for the messages and reviews, favourites, follows…and, of course, goldenpuon.
> 
> *thanks for the correction, .fire.

"So, let me get this straight: I'm in a cab heading to your apartment, Captain America's private home, to take care of it while you're gone?"

Steve's mouth pulls into a sudden frown. "In not so many words, but yes. I know this is last minute—"

"and your girlfriend?" Steve could practically see the upturned cheeky growl from the pilot on the other end of the line.

Steve's all marble-mouthed through the stuttering pause the follows, and it only makes this whole conversation that much more embarrassing.

"I'm messing with you," Sam's resounding snort rains static into the receiver. "Man. This is not a call I was expecting."

"At least I'm able to give you the courtesy of a phone call," Steve says pointedly, keeping his eyes deliberately to Natasha. The smooth reflection from the reinforced windows glisten along the coy curl of her lips as she turns to face him— but Steve can't bring himself to appreciate the humor that's somehow traveling all the way from New York to the S.H.I.E.L.D. fuel platform along in the middle of the North Sea. Four hours since he looked Fury in the eye. Six since he's changed into the new suit.

"I suppose it's confidential to ask where you are right now?"

Steve shifts the cellphone as he dips over the pitted metal to glance out over the sea. He can hear the moans of steel and creaking wood beneath his boots as the icy water rocks the entire hanger, blind and restless. If he squints hard enough, the slight peaks of frozen earth rise up over the distance. With the damp, star-studded air slipping in through the open bay doors, Steve is suddenly relieved he has a familiar voice in his ear to drown out the open maw of a dark night.

"Afraid not."

"And how long you'll even be gone?"

"Negative."

"Well aren't you just a wealth of information. I feel like I've heard this song and dance before—oh, yeah, I remember now: when we first went out to the Silver Spoon Cafe—You know what? Forget it, you're official. I get it. Just...Listen man, I'll get to the point. We're friends, aren't we?"

With the lightness in Sam's tone dissipated, Steve focuses again on the fleeting warmth of the plane's interior: gray seats, black seatbelts, handrails, blue safety tape and lights to point out the danger covering nearly everything that wasn't a door handle. "Of course we are."

"Give me a break, alright? I can at least ask about her?"

Her. Sam's question is heavy in Steve's conscious. Sam doesn't know Beth's name. Just like Fury. Just like everyone else in a world where her name meant as little as a nametag, and now he's at the metaphorical doorstep of a retired pilot begging for a friendly neighborhood house-watch and he could barely tell Sam an ounce of reason for it all. He quietly inhales, catching the polite pause in conversation by trying to make up for it with as much as he possibly could. Humiliating as this was about to become. "What made you think you couldn't?"

"Oh, I don't know, man. Just chattin' up Captain America about his hunnies. No big deal." Sam returns without missing a beat. "Three months ago I could barely get you to come to Support Group. Now you're calling at 2 in the morning like I'm about to hang up on you. Do you forget that? That you're Captain America? Because I don't. I don't forget that."

Steve tries not to smile at Sam's jab, but it's nearly impossible not to. One of the many reasons Steve felt drawn to him in the first place: someone that still could create laughter without a second thought. It made Steve feel paper-thin as how he dealt with his own depression with such self-centered intent—not speaking much, not showing up to invitations outside the regularities of S.H.I.E.L.D. It took no time at all to realise that Sam, on the other hand, couldn't stand to not speak if it meant his mouth was open to not just shriek insults at nearly anyone that looked at him. Sam, somehow, could turn that kind of pain into something that helped other people. Steve couldn't deny the powerful compassion of a person like that. He could only imagine how much that must've helped his squadron.

"Only when you aren't around to remind me, Sam."

"So start talkin', then. I'm not but two blocks up from your place and I don't even know what she looks like. I might let in some pretty young thing off the streets and into your lovely home, instead. Probably not a mark you want on that spotless record of yours."

"Hilarious."

"She's brunette? Green eyes? About 5'7? Skin-tight suit?"

"What? Not even clo—what are you talking about?"

"My bad. That was my dream girl." The shifting of cloth to phone muffles a quick exchange of directions from a crabby cab driver. "Sorry about that. I bet yours is…"

Steve represses a chuckle, suddenly acutely aware of Natasha's nails gingerly tracing the fog along the glass, half-way bored and half-way pretending in order to listen. A quick adjustment of his shoulders is all the body language Natasha needs to read the call: It's about the girl.

"She's—well, she's blo—"

"Blonde. Uh-huh. Tell me something I couldn't guess."

"She's got blue eyes and. And. Uhm."

There are better details he should say—like height or weight, but he can't. For all his time strategizing the strength of his shoulder to a bolted tank door, he isn't sure if she's too solid or too fragile. For all the moments he's pulled wounded partners from the dirt and across his shoulders, he can't tell Sam if she's heavy or not. Perhaps she is. Maybe she's the single toughest thing he's held in his mind and the worst part is he can't ever put her down. Not even when he closes his eyes, she's still standing there, hands folded behind her back, wrapped in that peach jacket with those loose brown buttons that made Steve's entire body feel like the inside of a lit cigarette. The words are stuck in his throat, carefully hiding behind his tongue. Words that say She's got these blue eyes and she sort've cries kind've easily. Similes that start with She's got this hair that smells like violets and mountain air and after inhaling there is this half second I don't know where I am anymore. Stupid stuff thatmeans nothing more than a confession of When I kissed her back I think I jammed my teeth into her lip.

"Helllllo?" Sam calls in amusement when he can hear nothing but the awkward sounds of a super soldier breathing. "You still there? Man. You got issues with the ladies that I ain't even heard of."

"Hey—it's been a long time, alright? I was never good at this kind'a thing." Steve drops the topic with a clear of his throat. "You close?"

"So close I can smell the vagueness of your imaginary girlfriend from the inside of this midnight taxi. I can ask for a refund, right?"

"Key's under the mat."

"Roger, Rogers."

"Yeah, because I didn't hear that joke one time since joining the Army."

"Are you asking me for jokes, Cap? That how it's gonna be? You want me to sing you 'American Pie'? Because I'll do it. I will sing you all six verses of Don McLean's greatest cash grab and I will feel—no—shame."

"There's a song called "American Pie"?" Stark really missed that opportunity to mock him yet again.

"Did you even listen to Marvin Gaye yet?"

When was the last time he had listened to music? Everything just sort've stopped since those months ago. Sure, he had woken up, but it was as if he still pretended to be asleep. Why did he keep telling himself to wake up? When did that voice stop and become replaced with something else?

"It's the top priority on the list, Sam, after this mission. That's a promise."

"Well, you are a living legend. I'm gonna hold you to that, Steve. Hold up. At the door now." There's a slight squeak of sneakers to floor as Sam bends to grasp knotted fingers around the mat. "There's—there's no key?"

Steve adjusts the cradle deeper against his cheek. "Excuse me?"

"I said there's no key here."

Half a heartbeat and Steve expects Sam to sigh and make an excuse for simply not seeing it the first time. Sam's pulling his leg again. But as the silence grows between the two lines, Steve starts to feel the beads of sweat collect along his back. "It's gotta be there, Sam."

"I've kicked it all around and I'm afraid that is not a correct statement." A brush of a firm weight against a wooden surface. "…And the door's unlocked."

Steve turns himself back to Natasha without a second thought. The spy herself seems to be standing a bit closer, nearly in arms reach, but Steve feels as if he couldn't be further away from anyone. He's in the middle of an ocean and his door is unlocked. His key is missing. It must be showing across his face—a look of bewilderment, palpable shock, a churning stomach—because it's only then that a concerned expression is coaxed out of Natasha's imperturbable demeanor.

Steve locks himself down. The sea is dark and featureless like the curvature of the earth from the pictures he's seen of 1969 moon landing. He suddenly feels so far from where he needs to be, entirely split in two. He doesn't feel like a Super Soldier now. Just someone trapped, floating, grasping onto a single invisible line. Sam is it now. Sam's voice is both commander and back up, but there is not enough air trapped in this plane to keep Steve's breathing steady.

"Sam." Calm. He forces the sea to move, but when it doesn't the soldier moves himself. The straining hanger whines beneath him as he begins to pace. "I know what you're already thinking, so I'm only going to say this once: I can't stop whatever it is you're about to do, but I have one order: keep this line alive. Tell me what's going on. If I can't stop you from going in, I need you to understand that I will issue help if this line is cut. I won't risk the chance."

Steve can hear the steady roll of something being gently pushed along an echoing surface, but Sam's breathing is clear. "It's probably basic a B&E, but I'm way ahead of you, Cap."

Silence.

Dear Lord, silence had never felt so deafening.

It picks away at Steve, and it's only Natasha's throaty murmur that manages to hold the strain of Steve's patience.

Her body is the movement of shadows from the corner of an eye, but her eyes are unshakeable. He has moved from staring straight ahead to glare deeply at the ghostly pale in Natasha's sharp features, but he doesn't mean to. This isn't her fault. This isn't anyone's fault but his own.

Her thin eyebrows raise and lower sympathetically. "Rogers, what's going on?"

"I asked for a favour from a friend and it's not turning out as planned."

The cat-eyed flicker in her eyes seems perturbed. Her patience, it would seem, is limited and retracted at a moment's notice. "Friend? What friend? I thought you were calling Ore."

Steve nearly snaps at her remark, but even the sheer idea of battering Natasha is draining as he feels the first wave of self-loathing seep into his veins. He doesn't have time to explain. He doesn't have time for all this silence. "It's 2 in the morning in New York. I made a different call."

"…Nothing yet, Steve. Nothing seemed overtly changed. No sign of anyone even being here. No broken glass, nothing seems moved…I'm gonna hit a light and see what's up. Don't worry. I'm armed. If anything goes wrong, you feel free to be as noble as you want."

Steve flickers back to life when Sam's voice is gone once again from his ears. He blinks at Natasha. She's speaking to him, her lips tightened with annoyance. "—realise that we're very short on time here, Rogers. What's really going on?"

Steve gives a short, soundless sigh of frustration before he carefully repositions his grip over the phone, sweat now lining his brow. "My apartment may have been broken into. Nothing seems suspicious so far. That's all I know."

She calms briefly at the sudden news, almost as if she expected something far worse, turning only to cast a determined glance towards the bay doors. They are alone for now. The moonlight whispers in through the windows, painting her pale face gray, and her red hair still straight to the point of her chin.

Her voice lowers, darker than its natural resonance. "Has anything been taken?"

Steve shakes his head slowly to give her some kind of proper answer, but he has hardly heard the question. Natasha glances at the doors again before moving closer.

"Blood, Rogers. I've found blood." Sam's voice announces over the silent line.

Quietly, Steve feels the hull of the craft leaning forward—his own vision clipping out for a half a second before Sam's voice is rushing through his ear, panting and unsettled. "Someone was attacked in the kitchen." Sam continues. "Chairs are knocked down. The wall is concaved. Titles broken. There's just this massive pool of—"

"Blood—Sam, hold on. Repeat that." His hand thuds hard against the metal skin of the carrier, desperate for a turbulence handle but there isn't one within reach. His fingertips slip as forces himself to hold on. He keeps staring at Natasha. There isn't anywhere else he could look. Where could he possibly go? There is nothing but the frigid waves all around, and Natasha's breathing is caught in one ear.

"Blood. In your kitchen. Lots of it. It's…it's everywhere."

"And?"

No.

"It's… dry." Sam swallows—the receiver clicks against his throat. "—gonna go check for a body."

No!

"Sam," Steve mouths soundlessly, and it's only the shadowed curves of Natasha's mirrored, terror-stricken expression that projects everything Steve can't allow to break through.

"Rogers?" Natasha hands touch at his shoulder. "What are you being told?"

Without Sam's voice to keep him walking the edge, Steve stares straight through Natasha, blue and expansive and absolutely motionless. His fingers shake the cellphone. Those fingers that wrote a letter and promised she'd be safe.

"Steve?" Her voice is concerning. "What is it?"

Suddenly, her face is close, with a hand on each shoulder that is squeezing the breath back into his lungs. He is confronted with the full force of her targeting eyes and is pierced into speaking. His mouth opens, lips dry and pale, and barely manages the name.

"Beth."

Natasha instantly stills. Her hands pull away as if burned, tight to her face but it's too late. Far too late.

She steps back. The faintest gasps escaping her lungs in disbelief—but it's wrong. Had Steve not been intently staring at her, had he barely blinked, he would never have been so lucky as to catch when Natasha is surprised, but it's not shock. Steve's heart beats harder against his chest, but the world grows quiet.

Natasha is quiet. Her breathing is wrong. She's surprised, but her eyes are distant. Her mouth unfurls longingly, and she knows.

And she knows.

Her surprise is corrupted. An awkward curl of her lips. Perhaps it was a sudden and too a noticeable tilt of her head,but for everything Steve has ever been told about himself, ever thought about himself, he can see it. There is no doubt, no second guessing, even as he wants to pretend, it's undeniably under his skin and more than likely already traced itself across his face. She didn't poise herself quick enough, and he saw the thread of light through the cracks of the green shells of her eyes and she's lying to him. Sam hasn't returned.

There is no light or sound or words to take him back from this place.

Steve sees Natasha completely plain, and what he sees is maddening. She's there, all slender fractals and Widow Makers at her wrists, all red and black and gray and a voice whispers danger but he knows this can't be.

She can't be. She lives with him. She's the one that told him he was worth something. She knows where he sleeps. She knows him. She knows Beth—she knows— and she always reminded Steve of the best parts of Peggy—intelligence and full, beautiful lips that rarely smiled, but when they did—She's standing farther and farther away and he thinks gaining distance.

She makes the first move. She always makes the first move.

Her green eyes are exposed. She's not on guard anymore, but there is nowhere to run from this. She backs into the metal sheets of bullet proof walls. She's seen those eyes a long time before when she had to hold a gun to a man's face when he had asked her what it was that she wanted from him.

Fury isn't after the monster. Natasha was good at this. She was perfect.

And Fury. Bruce's dark eyes seemed, for a moment, full of pity. Fury tells you everything?

Pity. It would be the few times in her life someone thought of her with sympathy instead of regarding her as impervious. But she didn't want that, couldn't risk that. Then she had wanted only one thing: Reason. She could reason. But was also then and this is now and yet those eyes don't change.

It's all gone wrong. This wasn't part of the plan. This wasn't part of Fury's plan. It's slipping out of control in a single instant with a single phone call.

Steve pales just to look at her, jaw locked, phone falling away from his face and to his side. He blinks rapidly, staring down at the floor before he slowly drags his eyes back across her body.

"You knew, Natasha?" he asks weakly. He breathes her name out in a ragged breath and her insides twist. "Natasha?" He gropes again, desperately, for her to answer, but it doesn't follow.

Natasha watches on as Steve slowly bows his head.

Her own plan has turned her ledger of grey to red and it is all her fault. When Steve looks back up at her, his eyes are dark and forlorn—practically unseeing. A broken vow is swimming behind the anger that boiling under his repressed, gentle demeanor. He swallows once, parts his lips, twists up his teeth, and attempts to back away from her like a wounded animal—one, two, suddenly six paces back, but he's losing. Natasha can hear the clench of his black gloves squelching into fists.

Steve Rogers, the man of reason, is suddenly terrifyingly beyond it. And she is beyond retribution.

"Steve—I." She begins, but then she stops.

Stop lying to me! Bruce had screamed.

I can't, she thinks as she measures up for the second time in her life having to take on yet another Super Soldier. This time, her friend. This time, she is full of regret, but the words do not come to tell Steve this. Too late for tears and useless pity. You don't understand. I can't.

She turns—but the doors are closing. The plane is suddenly alive and is pulling them away from all support and all chances of escape.

The entire cabin heaves from the weight of a solid, impossible strength rushing forward as the Soldier lunges after her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Thank you all, so absolutely much, for waiting and continuing to read. It's all I could possibly wish for. "Landing" soon to follow. Looks like we've got an echo back to "Pepper's Discompliance"...


	44. Landing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: SO THERE WAS THIS SUPER AWKWARD TIME WHERE I SPIRALED INTO SELF-HATRED AND DEPRESSION AND DIDN'T UP LOAD OR SPEAK TO ANYONE FOR A YEAR AND SOME CHANGE.
> 
> /coughs/(also I'm graduating from college, working two jobs so I didn't exactly have the free time I had before, but that is a lame excuse)/coughs/
> 
> I am so sorry for, well, me being me. I'm very happy to announce that, with some wonderful support, I am back in action. Thank you to absolutely EVERYONE that has reviewed, sent me a message of support, concern, anger—believe me, I needed to hear it. Thank you to Goldenpoun, thank you for all of your friendship and patience. Thank you to NotEnoughAnswers—for each and every amazingly detailed review and message— thank you to you, your eyeballs, right now. I understand if I've lost a lot of readers due to my actions. I understand because I lost myself. I understand if you are angry, or concerned, or are upset with me. I understand if you don't review, hell, I understand even if you don't, or won't, read because if those feelings. I just wanted to say that thank you, for your time, your dedication to this story. You guys are the absolute best. Please, please enjoy.
> 
> Next chapter is coming up tomorrow. It's already written out and polished.

No more broken promises.

Steve moves within the moments between each of Natasha's heartbeats; his arm drawn back in an arced line of measured force, a slow stutter next to what she has fought before—but Natasha does not have to imagine what will happen next. She's seen this before—an undoing from a distance that never ceased, never stopped looking for her. A ghost of red and silver and black. Another drawn back arm that shook the core of her being. But Natasha could never read the Winter Soldier, no one ever could…but that never mattered. At the end of it all, no one was ever supposed to matter.

Natasha was never supposed to matter. She was never supposed to survive. She was a red target with a life-span that ended in a single calculated distance from the tip of a sharpened arrow to the nape of her neck. The first decision that triggered an endless line of people that suddenly appeared in her life, even if she refused to talk to them. Agents that pulled the line, and understood the distinct and critical mask of appearances, could maintain a workable distance. It was only Fury that slowly, carefully, pulled her close—a steady eye of agreements, a closing stage of her past disappearing—a tango of a promise fulfilled. S.H.I.E.L.D had a way of changing the world. Painting everything a distinct shade of grey that people seemed to ignore.

No one was supposed to change Natasha.

There are 57 vital points on a human body, yet decisions that she usually played with are gone as she reads Rogers. She's always been able to. They are a red and blue dance in the encased darkness, bright blue lights illumining the intimacy that violence brings—sweat that glistens down the side of her nose, dripping into the tight collar of her jacket. He's much too close, far, far too quickly and there's not much she can do to hold off the blow that she knows is coming.

She braces with a turn of her face, cheek to cheek with the cool temperature off the helicarrier's wall. A loud, terrifying crash greets her right ear; Natasha can hear the impact inches to the side of her face. The bones from the sheer force of his muscles punch deep indents into the cabin. There's a rush, an instant, of where Natasha's leg is the barrier between the soldier and the spy—a shield of her own that's pushing against his waist—

"Stop." The word is a whisper held against her body, disarming and visceral. She stills, but does not slow. Her hand is cradled to the back of his neck, nails digging into the short-cut hairs. He reaches up, grips at her wrist and unknots her fingers. Natasha has little choice in what he plans to do now. Widow Makers or not, she cannot stop the strength of his arms. Carefully, Steve's hands form an iron ring around her wrists before returning them back to her side.

"I'm—not," Steve continues.

"Not what, Rogers?" Natasha hisses, her mouth the last line of defense.

"I'm not going to do this," Steve snaps. He stills—then sags forward. His body holding itself away from her, one arm stretched out to hold steady. The muscles holding his arm against the cabin wall crumble and fold. He leans into the crook of his elbow. She's pinned tightly, still forced against the constricted distance between her shallow breaths and Steve's chest. Pressed together so tightly, Natasha can feel the pulse of her neck down into her ankles, fluttering the blood in her body away from her toes so that she's standing on pins-and-needles. Her body wasn't listen to her. So frightened that she can hardly stand, can hardly feel the floor beneath her—but she's unharmed.

And now, the decisions that she usually played with are gone. Points of escape drain away from her, secretly breathless, as she stares at him. Rogers isn't so simple anymore.

Barton was the first—clear, simple, there's always a way Barton with a shot that he didn't take. No. It wasn't just a shot he didn't take. It was a shot he refused to take. She was given the one thing that she never, not once, gave to one of her own targets: she was spared. The bow and arrow were Barton's namesake, but to Natasha, they were a reminder that Barton is what changed the entire game. She refused to think of Barton as the obsession. It was more than him sparing her life, but for Clint, well, that's not entirely the end of it all. Clint always tried to give her more. That's less about her refusal or Natasha's lack of guilt—but maybe envy. Maybe compassion towards Clint. The more distance she could place between them, maybe the less he'd ever be hurt by her.

The agony behind Steve's blue eyes pierce into her, seeing straight through her, pale and alone.

"You lied to me."

Her lips tighten, but even The Black Widow has to breathe. An exhale. "I would confess to a lie. You didn't even give me the chance to do that."

"Dress it up however you like, Natasha. It doesn't change anything—and—and." He stops. His brows furrow, disappearing the youth in his face into the face of someone far beyond his years. Someone older, bitterer. He keeps his eyes dead-on, peering into Natasha's face.

"You—you don't change, do you?" He finally says. "This whole damn time, and I thought—" Steve begins. Stops. His mouth opens shallowly, teeth still exposed—an expression of pain. Of betrayal.

"I didn't know about Ore," Natasha says, her words clear and cold.

Steve's words are low in his throat. "You knew what was waiting in there. You knew."

Natasha turns her face, an inch away, cheekbone pressed to the wall once more. She can feel the tone of Steve's growl crawling down her neck. "I didn't know about her."

"You traded protecting me for the life of a civilian." Steve dares to tread closer, forcing Natasha to look at him once more. And his eyes blur before her, blue and unyielding. "Traded me. For what? Why? Part of Fury's plan? What else have you done? Who else is compromised because of you? This plane? These men?"

"I only pretend to know everything, Rogers! You said you wrote a letter—you didn't say to where. You didn't tell me she was going!"

"Do you think I'd trade an innocent life for a selfish reason?"

And, perhaps, in the spaces between Steve's hastened breathing, she could see it. The difference between her and Rogers—perhaps she is too selfish. Perhaps Steve is right. Loki might've shown her that. Or it could've been a lie. Or, dare she dream it, it could be all too real—the struggle she'd shut out of her mind every time Barton opened his stupid mouth: Would I have spared Clint the way he spared me?

"Yes." Steve says instinctively. "I do. Fury bred you and Barton to be a modern day backstabbers. I had my doubts—how can I trust anything about you now—about Fury?"

"Steve," Natasha's low voice grows small. Nearly a whisper that Steve isn't buying. "I wouldn't do this to you." His stare is ice. The truth bristles over her tongue as it rushes out: "Not this way. Yes, I wanted Ore—I had my own plan. I had no idea what you said to her in that letter!"

This seems to stop the soldier in his tracks. He pulls back from Natasha as if burned. His arms shift, his head dipped low, and he suddenly gasps. His glare lessens, fades, until he's staring straight through her. For a moment, Steve is gone. His breathing stills. His words are faint.

"Oh my God."

Natasha is cautious. She reviews word-choice, tone, and doubles back: The letter. She has to know. She has to work around this. "What did that letter say?"

"That'd she'd be safe." His jaw locks. "I told her that if she felt nervous she could go to my apartment. I was—that was the call to Sam. I told her he would be there. She—she doesn't like being alone at night. I—"He closes his eyes. "How could my apartment matter? I barely live there. There's dust on the doorknobs for God's sake! I had…" My own plan. "This neighbor…she…"

He's trembling, badly. It's shaking her body. If it were any other person—anyone else but Steve Rogers, she'd shove him away. She'd make for the door, the ceiling, the water. She'd be gone. This conversation would've ended the moment the soldier let his guard down. But, suddenly, Natasha is there once more, in Beth's bedroom, staring down at the Super Soldier that Fury said would be the answer a thousand questions that were barely being discovered. The Super Soldier that was, in a way, supposed to be just like her. With no family still alive and no friends left to turn to. No one to love or love in return. But he isn't her. And it's so horribly painful to look at Steve and not see herself—Natasha can barely feel shame for herself—to see a victim. To see vulnerability. To see Barton, washed away, mind-controlled, unable to control himself. Now she can only see someone she was only trying to protect filled with so much hate for her.

Natasha's stomach twists and she hopes he believes her when she says: "I never meant for this."

Steve ignores her. "What was waiting for her?"

"That I don't—"

"Don't you dare say you don't know!" He means to give her a small shake but it knocks the back of her head against the smooth, cold plates and the resounding bang of bone to metal is loud; Natasha keeps her head pinned back, pressed into the circle of purple rising up along the crown of her hair. Her eyes peer back at Steve from careful, narrowed slits. She doesn't even seem to register the pain.

"You know, I do care for Beth. I even tried to protect her from you," Natasha says coolly.

Steve's pupil expands, black and blue holding themselves by racing, pounding nerves behind his eyes. "Stop playing games."

Natasha tilts her head. The cream of her neck shimmers fragilely, like the tip of an insect's wing, caught upon an examination table. "Do you believe me?"

Steve's response is a low, teeth grinding rumble. "No."

"It was the night you had that reaction to Fury's pain medication. Don't you think that was so odd? That it took you out of control like that? I've wanted to ask you: what did you see while you were on it? What did you feel? Did you know what was happening to you?"

"You're not the one to ask questions here."

"Fury's trying to change you, Rogers." Steve's fingers are stronger than S.H.I.E.L.D made-handcuffs she's been in. They are digging into her bones. His reaction, conscious or not, is uncomfortably painful.

"Yeah, I think I've figured that one out all on my own."

"But you're wearing the suit anyway?"

"Enough. This suit has nothing to do with who I am."

She leans back again, her lips curving up knowingly. "A suit is like a second skin. You've do much better if you just embraced that, Rogers."

"You'd know a lot about embracing Fury's lies."

"I do. He ordered Barton to kill me before he decided I was useful. So I've been useful, living under Fury's thumb."

"And you've lived under the skin of every Avenger. Stark, Banner, Barton. I suppose Thor's only spared because his armor's too thick—or his skull."

"I was never trained for Gods and their petty sibling rivalries."

"Just trading the lives of the innocent for my own. I could've handled whatever was coming, Natasha."

"No. You couldn't." She confesses sharply. "I knew what Fury wanted. I just didn't know you were sending her. Fury wanted to go to back to your apartment but I changed the plan—called it a mistake—and passable, I'm not supposed to know anyway."

"Know what?"

Her lips thin and her green eyes turn hard and impassible as she studies Steve, so close to his face, centimeters away from bloodying his bottom lip if she wanted to continue this fight. But she doesn't. Not anymore.

"It's not a what, Steve. It's a who."

"Talk, then."

Natasha stiffens. She blinks a few times, collecting herself to distract from the strength of Steve's hands, before she begins. "Most of the intelligence community doesn't believe he exists. The ones that do call him 'The Winter Soldier'. He's credited with over two dozen assassinations in the last 50 years."

"And what was he doing in my apartment?"

"I don't know." Natasha's eyes fixate over the grey star over Steve's chest. "But I believe Fury does."

"This. This whole plan of yours—a hunch?"

"He's been looking for him for decades. Sent team after team. S.H.I.E.L.D agents and when they came back in body bags he changed his mind—he's even gotten so desperate that he went to the Xavier Institute—I don't know how he managed to talk such a prudent man into it. Fury wanted to put so many lives in danger." She closes her eyes. Children. She can see own wooden shack of an orphanage. And see those tiny, skeletal hands reaching out—scared and wild. "And those mutants that Xavier trains—they're just… children. Children with bad genes."

"I was a kid with bad genes." Steve retorts coldly. "I think I turned out alright."

Natasha pushes faintly off the wall, pulls against the binds of Steve's fingers, to stand as close as she can at eye level with him. "These kids are only lucky in the fact that Fury didn't get his way. He just got one."

Steve's heart skips hard. Logan.

Her voice lowers huskily. "Have you heard of The Wolverine?"

"Yeah," Steve says faintly. "Once or twice."

"Good. Now imagine that Fury didn't just want Wolverine to find The Winter Soldier. What if he was just using him as bait? Or…a trade?"

The words cut into Steve's mind, turning his insides to water.

Everything in my past is dead, Steve had promised.  
But Logan's dark eyes told a different story. The loss in his voice peeled apart Steve's last line of closure.

And what if it's not?

Natasha hardly has time to notice the change in the soldier. She continues on, quickly, without pause: "At the time it was just a basic protocol of attempting to find the Soldier. He'd been barely active since the early 80's. It was never clear what brought him out of hiding. But when The Wolverine comes back empty handed, you know this is a very powerful source. I believe Fury knew that he'd never actually see the Soldier. But he needed a way in. He needed someone dangerous enough, to feel threatened enough to turn some kind of evidence up. Someone had to stop this man from destroying all of Fury's best laid plans for the future." Natasha pauses, lifts her eyes to Steve's. "And then we found you, Rogers. Buried in ice. And suddenly Fury has the literal piece to his puzzle. Another ghost story come to life."

Steve's entire body steels. A face flashes into his mind—a young man laughing—smiling. He refuses to fully picture it.

"This Ghost. He sounds like an Axis Power commission. Something Hydra would've tried back in the day in some insane attempt to—"Steve's words blur together. He grimaces as the gruesome images pour back into his brain of the men he couldn't save, strapped down to tables, experimented on, and tortured into becoming the next Super Soldier, dead and rotting for days before he had found them.

"Steve," Natasha keeps her voice calm. She has to say the words. She has to tell him. "Whatever he is, whatever side he's working with—it's the same man from Hydra since…since your time. He looks the same. He doesn't age. I've seen—I—I promise you that what I'm saying is true."

"The same man?" Steve swallows thinly. "Who is he?"

For once, Natasha considers her answer. "We don't know."

Steve feels the blood rush to his face, the pressure building up behind his eyes. The face of James Barnes is gone for once. Now he can only picture Beth.

"And…this man," Steve asks slowly, his voice tight. "Does he let them live?

A nauseating pause. "Hydra doesn't take prisoners."

"Answer me, Natasha," Steve demands, although her words are a blow to the chest, an ache to his side. "This Soldier, he always get the kill?"

Quicker this time. "Not always."

This throws him off-guard. Steve's heart quickens. "No?"

"Not me."

Steve feels the Spy pull gently at her waist before he realizes that he has her locked. He lets go of her hands, his eyes careful, as he analyzes her body for a new weapon, but, to Steve's relief, Natasha only pulls up the rolled layers of her suit to reveal a scar. Circular. Deep. Bullet shaped.

Natasha watches in silence as Steve continues to stare; the residual judgment of his gaze almost permanent to her skin. Suddenly, Steve's huge hands clasp over her shoulders, heavy over her collarbone. Natasha launches into a response.

"Steve, I'm sorry, I am, about what happened to her—but all we can do now is check the signal—"

Steve jerks at the word—and the motion lifts Natasha from the floor. With her back laying her up against the wall, she's finally eye to eye with Rogers. "Signal?! Did you spy on Beth, too? The whole time? Lord, Natasha—who's side are you on?"

"I'm a lot things to a lot people Rogers, and that includes Fury most of all."

Steve's mouth becomes solemn. His face weary. "Does anyone know who you really are?"

Natasha is unfazed. "Does anyone know you, Rogers?"

"I don't matter now." He glances out the window behind Natasha's head before they settle back onto her. "I guess I never did. I'm apparently just collateral." He shakes his head. "Can I ever believe that?"

"I can try harder to convince you. If you do something for me."

"What?" Steve rounds again, his eyes cold.

"Will you tell me what happened to you—when Banner administered Fury's drug?"

Steve releases her in a quick, sharp drop. Without a second being missed, Natasha catches herself with her usual grace.

Steve sucks in a deep breath. "I felt…cold. Cold like I'd only felt in the Alps or—the Ocean—made me think I was somewhere else. I couldn't keep trace of my sense of time. Like I was—back there. Back in 1940, and I was trapped there and I couldn't keep myself still. I lost my ability to think, to feel. I was. . ." A faint smile traces his lips. Bitter. Sad. "…fading away."

"And what if that was pumped into you, non-stop?"

"However do you mean?"

Natasha's expression is unreadable. "I don't know." She says finally. "I just know that Fury is doing something to you, Rogers. I don't know what the end goal is—but that it's happening. That was enough to make me push you to get out. Get away from S.H.I.E.L.D. To have some kind of existence outside of being a Super Soldier. It's why I wanted you to be with Ore. It's why I kept asking and asking about you dating someone, or talking to someone."

"So I wouldn't be a ghost story?"

Natasha's green eyes seem relieved. "So you could be a person before a weapon. Like how you are now."

Steve nearly laughs in her face at her supposed sympathy. "How can you say that to me, Natasha? I don't even know how I—even—can fathom you—anymore!"

She smirks as if he's flattered her. "I find it's easier to hide your true self under layers and layers of untrue ones. I guess you just aren't comfortable with that."

"No," Steve's voice lowers, dropping somewhere between sincere and hopeless. "What I mean is: how do I know I'm looking at the real Natasha?"

"You don't. But I don't think you or I are in positions to risk that right now. What I meant by calling you a weapon is that Beth understood what I was getting at. You are dangerous; just like Stark, just like Banner and the rest of us. The night I left her alone with you, I left her a panic device. Fury gave it to me specifically because I had trouble—adjusting." She pauses. "There is only one of its kind—but not the last of what it represents. It's very distinctive in the code it streams out. Encrypted only for—for massive threat. It was meant for Banner. For me to have, since—since—" Natasha's smug expression falters.

Steve makes up for what she can't say. "I get it. So it's some kind of tracking device? Sent to S.H.I.E.L.D and then some?"

"And then some. But it means she's there within—what I can only suppose is—Hydra. And so is he."

Steve keeps his voice quiet. "And the rest of these S.H.I.E.L.D members with us? What do they know?"

"That the plane's GPS is locked into Germany. Fury hasn't changed that plan yet. And long as we're stationed, I can keep the signal."

Steve sighs, long and doubtful. "So it's a waiting game."

"Isn't there an old saying about waiting and good things?"

"That doesn't happen to me," Steve allows. "I had to fight for everything I wanted."

"Well, that makes two of us," Natasha returns.

"Show me, then."

"I thought you'd never ask."

If the rest of the crew saw anything about the fight between Avenger and Avenger, they refuse to show it. But Steve keeps Natasha at a passing distance. She shows him the map. Shows him the circles that signal, not too far from the Alps themselves, where the supposed trigger is still going off. Perhaps it's indestructible? Steve can only imagine that anything goes when it's built to deal with The Hulk.

"4.6 miles off the coast. We're to be landing shortly. Thank you for your patience, Captain. Widow."

"You're welcome, Cam," Natasha purred, her eyes still glued to the GPS flashing across the flat screen in the cabin. Steve followed the position of her eyes.

"So Fury knows then. About her." It isn't a question.

"I haven't been into contact besides informing Fury that I was taking you with me instead. But it really doesn't matter now. Fury's still getting what he wants—and what he wants is that signal to The Winter Soldier."

Steve lapses again, quiet, his eyes locked to the screen. For nearly two hours he had pictured this Soldier—and, more importantly—Beth. Where was she now? Was she possibly unharmed? He nearly wanted to drop to his knees and start praying right there in the cabin, thousands of feet from the ground, but he couldn't bring himself to grovel near Natasha's feet. He keeps it all internally. God, Beth. Please, please.

An eternity and then—

"What?"

Steve startles, suddenly alert. "What do you mean, 'what'?"

Natasha stands. Then she poises up, dancer-like, on the tips of her boots for a better look.

"There are…other carriers closing in on us." Her voice is distant. Almost confused. Again, Natasha's incredulous stare keeps Steve anchored to where he is standing. She's right. There are other images on the scanner now. Tracking. Moving at an extremely fast rate. Steve feels like he blinks and they're inches away from the plane. Just outside the window.

He looks for Natasha. Missing. The door is opened into the pilot's chamber, and he quickly follows in, already caught between a rush of words between two quickly moving mouths:

"Unsure. Unidentified. Too fast. We can't maneuver away—"

"What do you—fine, but then why—understood."

"Well, I don't understand," Steve cuts again, concerned. "What are they?"

A moment where no one says anything. Natasha turns to Steve and simply says: "Move."

Handrails are clung to. Doors bolted. But Steve continues to stare, gripped to the screen. Whatever it is, it's nearly here. The cabin is entirely still despite the pairs of eyes held tight to the walls.

"Natasha?" He breathes. "What's after us?"

Her voice is a whisper. "I don't know. Hydra, if I had to guess. Already spotted." She's listening. Ear pressed to the walls. For what, Steve cannot possibly imagine. All air combat he had ever known was earsplittingly loud. Steve can only brace himself.

Suddenly, Natasha glows—her Widow Makers hiss and spark. Steve grips the weight of his shield and holds it steady. Words cannot describe how much he has missed this moment. He never finished high school. Never knew much of poets or philosophers. But there was something tragically poignant between the seconds of the impending war. Steve used to feel a moment of comradery with his teammates, the Howling Commandos and the men at his side—but with Natasha just across from him, eyes wide and calculating her next move—he grips his shield tighter to his side. He had stopped himself before. He didn't want this. He didn't want to feel so conflicted about Natasha—but here he was, an arm's length away and not in usual combative stance at her side—and there she was—truthful since her confession, but undeniably calm. Her calm was infuriating. What did it mean? Did she know what was coming?

A flash of gold and red from outside the windows, followed by black and red. The shapes of human bodies, shooting through the air. Steve catches the flying craft only for second before he finds Natasha's eyes meeting him halfway. Her mouth is slightly open. The surprise is too real across her face for her to be a part of this, and in that, Steve has to trust.

But Steve nearly doesn't trust his own eyes. He has seen those colors before. Natasha's glances, darts to the window, before she pulls Steve's eyes to her once again to confirm their common knowledge. Suits. Iron Man suits. Encircling the carrier. And suddenly, Steve can hear it in the air. A force, an electricity that makes the hairs on his arms rise. The pressured air in the cabin is humming.

Black Widow's eyes look steady for a moment before she closes her eyes, knuckles white over the railing. Steve mimics her stance, but watches, forcing his eyes open until they sting from the dry air. Then, at his window, a head hovers into view, somehow maintaining itself against G-force and air gusts and speed.

An Iron Man Mask is staring back, cold and unyielding. The ones from Tony's lab.

Tony?

Without warning, the floor suddenly falls out from beneath the Soldier's feet. Steve feels himself plummeting despite the fact that he's hanging on with one hand to the inside of the plane. The air rushes out the cabin, tossing every human body inside like rag dolls, and Steve looks down into the crushing, open-mouth of the icy sea. A full personalized view of the burned through metal and steel of the plane's interior paneling.

There are three more suits clawing up the side of the plane. Five more. Ten more. Shredding off the walls, cutting with man-shaped fingers with thousands of pounds of pressure that form human-shaped indents into the sides of the plane.

They're taking it to pieces.

Steve's eyes jump to Natasha only to find the Spy is still with him, just opened mouthed, shocked, maybe deafly screaming over what is about to happen. Steve doesn't have time. Soon, there won't be a floor or a handle to reach. He reaches out for her and swings himself towards the opposite side of the plane. He makes contact with her body, grasping around her waist as they both stare downwards—and soon, a hovering suit pulls itself inside, face to face with both Avengers.

It lifts up the palm of its hands just as Steve raises his shield. Instantly, the arc beam is absorbed as a furious blast of light knocks the Suit away from the interior, shaking the cabin and jerking the plane off course. The shock from the beam rattles Steve's spine, bashed backwards against the wall—but he makes sure he has Natasha firmly in his grasp. A glance upwards and he's face to face with the next suit. And another. And another. Like pack of hunters, they storm the plane—ripping through windows and sundering precious equipment. A pair of strong arms lock around Steve's neck as Natasha's body clings to him, temptingly risky, with Widow Makers so close to his throat, but he makes the decision to project her. He twists in an attempt to place himself between the next beam and the Spy before the handle grip breaks out from under his fingers.

All the times he's jumped from a helicopters and planes and Steve still can never quite prepare himself for the feeling of weightlessness that overcomes him.

They fall.

Natasha closes her eyes, clinging, Widow Makers hissing, as she stabs her teeth into her own lips, but Steve can only look upwards as they drop towards the sea below, halfway entranced by Tony's ability to change all of the suits directions at once—like they share one mind. The metal bodies instantly rush down in acute formation; appearing like a strange, mechanical whirlpool as they billow downward, sleek and dynamic, and easily outracing the two Avengers descent into the bone-shattering layers of waves below. Steve gets it. They're coming after them, and them alone, forgetting the shrieking, smoldering plane and the crew still inside. Once again, closer than ever before, one of the suits lifts a hand towards Steve—and Steve jerks up and grasps the hand back, using the entirety of his fingers to lock around the wrist like a parachute, forcing the man inside to duel over the rate of their decent.

The act of fighting Tony was never far from Steve's mind, but he can't find Stark's eyes within the suit—but if Tony is there—if he really has to do this—Steve isn't afraid. If this is what Stark wants. What was planned—even between Fury and the rest of them—Steve no longer cares. But Jesus Christ, Steve swears, what has happened to his Team? How could this happen? What is truly is S.H.I.E.L.D?

They won't crash into the sea. Steve swears by this. He won't drown again. He refuses. And when he thinks of the gap he jumped to reach Bucky, a hellish inferno inside of that German base, he knows made more dangerous leaps of faith before.

No more broken promises.


	45. Elizabeth's Decision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I hope everyone is having a great day. Please enjoy.

Elizabeth Ross promises herself that this is the last time, but this last time always leads into the beginning of the next dead thing—the next final time. The moment her eyes open, the dead seconds between skin and membrane and bed drift down over her sheets, slowly and calculatingly, like numbers and equations from childhood chalkboards. She watches, alert, completely sane, because she has memories before this moment of being awake. She recalls a world before the snow of the mountain peaks, distant and jarring, as her bed springs creak uncomfortably, like the snapping of branches, like the scent from a sharp, pungent autumn nuzzling the back of her throat. Somewhere, there is a seasonal change. She never thought she'd be so old, to be able to reflect over a childhood that came and went through a triangular prism that spit the many directions of her adolescence and teenaged recklessness. Her adulthood severely altered itself into impregnable tendrils of light that left no shadow—she had no treasures of youth, no letters, no phone calls, no colleague to gossip to. How dare she lower herself so pathetically when she's always prided herself on escaping the reach of her own shadow?

Not anymore. This is last time she'd awaken, feeling skinned alive, devoid. This is the last time.

She doesn't slip, yet every tile feels icy and smooth under the thick ball of her feet as she moves. She is soundless, looking straight ahead. If someone ever saw her, she wouldn't care. She has earned the respect of HYDRA for being the best at her expertise, her unwavering nature, her unflinching desire to stay as tightly coiled to Pierce's side as possible. She is able to walk nightly, unbothered, untethered, simply because she's been here the longest—perhaps always, she's been here, and she lies to herself about what she's seen and whom she misses. What seemingly holy blessed bit of propaganda did her father, a U.S. Governmental authority, now clutch in his fists? And from which corrupted leader did he take orders from now? And what if she truly was doing right by Pierce, if HYDRA worked, if S.H.I.E.L.D fell, if Fury didn't murder her in her sleep for tampering with forces, deep and powerful, simply because she saw the Monster first? And after the fall of the Avengers Tower. . .was there a monster trapped under the ashes, layers of cement and oil, sealed away like the Titans of Greek mythology—and when his fist could no longer break the surface, when no more light pours in from above, when the mouth of the world had swallowed him whole and spat him back radioactive teeth and unbreakable human bones, would he still split the earth with his rage? Would he come looking for her?

Why does she keep looking for him?

She stops, her thoughts gumming at the walls of her skull, forming a headache.

Sometimes, for fun, she pretends the aspirin pocketed in her scrubs could be a poison—but the choice is too selfish: kill herself or kill the boy? Why tonight, and not yesterday? Or yesteryear? Why not a decade ago, or poison the building and walk out with him? Could she truly survive walking the valley of frost against the wake of a Super Soldier? If she fell, would he carry her? Or in her death, would he let her hold him? Spare her of this moment of flickering pain for this dawning hour, and leave him restless—that is the fool's errand, the false pertinence of choice. But there is no amount of over the counter medication to stop his whimpering. It is bone deep. It even swirls within the gears of his missing arm. She can feel its growth, year by year, like aging, even inside of her own body. Her own missing piece.

And he is just a boy.

The containment cell—block D-77— she forces the unlock code. She tells herself she has reasons to be in here. She's needed. She has complete dominion over this side of HYDRA—doesn't she?

Shouldn't she?

The lie is familiar and addicting and it goes on, unyielding, each night.

James Barnes sleeps as a child might sleep; curled into himself, hip bones jutting against the steel slab, chained down from wrist to ankle. To the side stands the ever watching cryo-chamber, nightmarish, a gawking, art-deco reminder of what is to come tomorrow. He'll be forced inside, or worse, go willingly, without fear, into that cold. Considering all that had happened today, Elizabeth finds it quite amazing that Pierce didn't already encase his "Perfect Soldier" inside. Perhaps what she had said mattered. Pierce is bitter and delusional. James Barnes is not perfect. He is rotting from within. He is rotting—and she doesn't really know where it begins. His body? His mind? The neurons? The memories? So many questions. So little time alone with him.

Does he even feel pain anymore?

She pulls a chair closer with a clipboard in hand. She pins on the odds and ends of what she was hired to do—repair, analyze, remember. She remembers when he originally felt pain. His arm, the missing one, would ache. He could feel his arm being sliced off, rattled the chair and leather bindings, ravished in pain. To repair the tissue beneath it was necessary to remove the entirety of the thick metal plating, carefully detach wires from the remainder of his shoulder—expose the scar tissue, deeper and less malleable with every cleanse. His missing muscles: the pectoris major, pectoris minor, trapezius, subclavius, serratus anterior, rotator cuff, deltoid. . . did he feel them every time?

Her pen scratches briefly but the sound feels muted. She glances at his face, but nothing has changed—slack, eyes closed, teeth exposed—she jerks. Something is wrong.

Deciding, Elizabeth moves towards his face, pausing inches from the even breathing of HYDRA's living weapon, lifts her hand—slowly, faintly, pushes away the drift of grease and sweat entangled hair—and finds James is smiling. Unconsciously, of course. Humor. A lightness. A personality. Preference to objects. The ability to enjoy or amuse, the skill to comprehend expressions, both to give them and to receive them, has been gone since, if her notes hold true, and they always do, 1986. Elizabeth holds her hand steady, tempted to run for Richard. She's never seen this before. Not once, in all her years. A simple fluke? Perhaps a bodily twitch, a realignment of facial muscles in REM sleep, Richard would know. Richard usually keeps post-notes of all midnight shifts. Richard would know. But Richard would be also be entirely across the whole compound by now. He would also be asleep, one arm under a pillow, somehow sleeping nude in this insufferable cold, and would absolutely bitch at her if she ran to him now. And by the time she'd reach James again, she'd risk it being gone.

But Richard is not as… meticulous as she is.

This smile— this exposure—it is nonsensical. A complete malfunction that could not relate to the events of the day. His thrashing, his tears, his screaming. Each and every employee could hear James' screams. Even her young patient, that pitiful creature in station B…

Elizabeth could not help herself. To think: if James actually smiled, if muscle memory awoke and allowed neurons to form connections to bring him such a reaction—physiological and perhaps even psychological event that would have to fight through layers upon layers of numb, emancipated conditioning that meant James could…dream. If it was true…what images would he possible be seeing? Could he feel a place beyond what has become of him? Did that mean he could imagine? Did that mean that he could want? Would he recognize anything or anyone—the paint from an automobile, a dial tone from a telephone booth, his childhood bedroom—his mother's face?

Elizabeth does not allow herself to touch him again. She sits once more. Watching. But it does not move. It could mean so many things. Could be interpreted so many ways. It is almost haunting, almost forced, almost genuine, as if he cannot help but smile, a deeply human twinge, like a string being pulled, that no matter how hard James did not want to admit it, whatever it was—it was—good.

A sharp, pressing pain blinds her, crumples her inwards as her stomach tightens. Elizabeth cannot remember the last time she has smiled at all.

Ulcers, she thinks, and perhaps it may be, always so sure of her body's surrendering—or need. She twists her arms around herself, curling, uncurling, silent. She's grown old, her own bones soaked over with wires and machines and endless, gleaming, silver, but she remembers yearning. Genetics and circumstance provided her career, shattered her wisps of faith, weighted the statistics and mathematical proofs of her relevance to what she has decided the last full measure of her life will become. That is all chance at birth. However, she cannot deny the fact that she deserved to be a mother. She had every human right. But is that the price one pays when one faces off with monsters beneath every skin? To become stripped of traditional status quo and become the next sterile structure in the evolutionary chain? Did that make her weaker, to want so badly, to see James' dark hair and wide searching eyes, and not imagine the son she might've had?

Had time been generous and her life sought with any other man, she would have had a baby. But she couldn't look at James and not see that the age his body suggested... It would match what her son would be in relevance to her own, perhaps by a few years more, or a few years less…

Stop.

She will not project the life of her never-born child onto a boy that was stripped of his own identity. She will not. She cannot be one more monstrous person that dresses up a victim and manipulates him into loving her. She refuses that useless life of motherhood, the empty, faceless mannequin of her imaginary lover that would have granted her such a son.

But, gazing at James, she can picture no one but Bruce.

Dawn is creeping through.

Tonight is the last time.

Tomorrow, she will bring the girl.


	46. Her Winter Soldier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: GUESS WHO IS BACK WITH LOTS OF FREE TIME AND READY TO HAVE SOME FUN AND ALSO HELLO HERE IS A LONG CHAPTER.
> 
> It's meeee. That...me. Yeah. Alright...good job, Kaley, I think they got the joke.
> 
> /clears throat/
> 
> So...you guys are all the very best readers for sticking with me. I'm very happy to say that I have a lot of free time as I JUST graduated and am focusing on getting back to what I once loved about writing fanfiction. Having some fun. Man. Isn't that great to say sometimes?
> 
> PLEASE ENJOY.
> 
> I'm sorry if the chapter gets a bit confusing, but I was limited in what information and perspective I can offer per character. Ross will be further fleshed out. And Beth is...well... Until I get to more...exploratory...chapters...girl is gonna have to just deal with it.
> 
> Lord. I hope she makes it.
> 
> /wiggles eyebrows/
> 
> TONY AND BRUCE ARE NEXT. AS IF I DIDN'T MIX UP THEIR LIVES ENOUGH.

Two things are a constant in Beth's small, dark world: Doctor Ross, or so says her nametag, and the threat that she will soon be killed.

The doctor is with her for nearly all hours of the day. Or night. It's impossible to tell when the static, sterile hospital room cages her, not to mention different measurements of pills and morphine and other drugs that Beth pretends aren't coursing through her body. But Beth's constant, unfriendly companion, a woman who only says her name is Ross and demands to be addressed only as such, keeps her well informed of all the rest of the details Beth can't see.

Once she was coherent, a few misunderstandings where made extremely clear: she is being held, "comfortably", in a place somewhere in Germany. Wherever they are, it's freezing, and it never stops freezing. The organization calls themselves "HYDRA". They're some type of seemingly ancient regime run by someone Beth actually recognizes: Head Secretary of the United States Defense, Alexander Pierce. What they want, Beth isn't entirely sure—but it has to do with—with—(she always forces the word, the image, the realization like a quick jab to the stomach) Steve, her Soldier, her… Captain America.

Beth blinks, the movement like a cleansing that rips the mask and face and warmth back out of her; she can't allow Steve in again—not now. Not with that—that monstrous man—lurking, somewhere, beyond the walls and door of this cell. She gets it now.

She's alone here. And Steve isn't coming to get her.

He probably doesn't know that places like this exist.

What a U.S. Official is doing here, with these people, Beth couldn't even pretend to know, even less with his wanting of Captain Steve Rogers. What she does understand? They got her instead. And that, apparently, is a very, very unlucky thing.

Of course, she hasn't seen Pierce. She only sees Ross. But Pierce is whispered constantly between the orderlies. This is how Beth figured out Ross had some kind of unspoken authority over the staff. They fear her. They also, to great confusion, fear Beth. Most refuse to look her in the eye. Even fewer speak to her. Not that Beth had much to ask, or tell them. There is a camera that rotates back and forth across the bedroom, its blue light bleeding into the hours Beth spent staring straight back at it, as if she could find an answer reflected back in its face.

It's a waiting game now and it is excruciatingly clear how useless Beth is to HYDRA, and they're desperately aware of it.

Between the long stills of silence, there's only Doctor Ross. And her endless, endless questions.

At what Beth guesses to be night, Ross is changing tubes, scratching notes with pen and paper to a clipboard. She's dark-haired, extremely pale skinned, with high cheekbones. It's clear that she's older than Beth—maybe even her mother's age. Tiny wrinkles dot the corners of her eyes, the silver-moon grey of her hairline. She even has a shoulder bag like her mother, close to her at all times. But Ross isn't much of a talker. She isn't much of a care taker, either. Her hands are cold. Her movements to correct Beth's arm or take her blood are painful. But there is something about her. Something about the way Ross holds herself—it's so strange, but Beth can swear…she's looking for something. Maybe something in Beth or on Beth…maybe something…emotional? Beth clings tightly onto this fragile speculation that she could be worth something to Ross. It's all she has left.

"Are you ready to begin again?"

Beth breathes deeply. Her throat feels so much better without the tube. "Yes."

"Do you know where you are?"

Beth shifts from her seat along the side of the bed. They're given her a black turtle-neck uniform, a white coat like Dr. Ross's. Once handcuffed to the bedrails, Beth finds herself able to move around with a bit more freedom—well, as much freedom that being clad in only thick black socks and loose-fitting sweatpants allows. A black sling holds her shattered right hand, her dominate hand that, without its use, cuts her off from strange basic controls, like eating with precision, or brushing her teeth without getting toothpaste all over the sides of her cheeks, as well as her sore and useless rest of her arm.

"Being held prisoner." Beth finally answers, altering her response after coming up with other, less flattering terms to describe her terrible fate.

"And do you know who I am?"

"Ross."

"And what do I do?"

"Make sure I'm not dead. Yet." Beth tacks on the last word. She's pretty sure she'd be trembling or crying by now, but another side effect of lapsing in and out of shock is that it's hard to gather the will to crumble when nothing happens, locked, 24/7, in a single room. In a way, it's almost…peaceful. A seriously fucked up kind of peaceful, but, it's no New York City.

"And you are aware that you are here because of a failure on the Avenger Initiative's behalf?"

"I went to Steve's apartment on my own. That isn't true."

Ross clears her throat lowly. "You are aware that you are here because of a failure on the Avenger Initiative's behalf?"

Beth bristles—the hairs on the back of her neck rise. This is it. This is always what happens. Ross won't fucking stop telling her lies.

"What do you want me to say?! 'Yes'?!" Beth raises her voice—useless as she understands it now—the walls are pretty much soundproof—beyond—beyond that—scream—"I said no!"

Ross sets her teeth—startlingly white and perfect—into a row. Writes something down on her notepad.

"From what we've monitored, you've mentioned Natalia Romanova's name many times. You are an associate with Fury and his Agents, for whatever apparent skills you fail to show us you possess, but you do know her. Would you consider her some type of—"

"How about we talk about that monster that tried to kill me in Steve's apartment, huh? What about him?" Beth locks her eyes to Ross's. "When you leave, you go to him, don't you?"

Ross sets down her pen. "James is of no concern to this inter—"

"He tried to kill me, Ross! What does this fucking matter?! He'll probably just do it again."

The doctor holds her mouth still. In the quiet that lasts between them, Beth can faintly hear the grind of teeth on teeth. "Would you kindly stop interrupting me you insufferable brat?"

Beth jerks back. The words fall out of her mouth, mumbled. "I'm sorry, Doctor Ross."

Ross seems unmoved. Quickly, she stands, collects her things and turns for the door. Beth leaps at the opportunity—she can't stand to be here alone for another endless hour.

"Wait! Wait!" Beth scrambles to her feet, the chain of the handcuff rattling in protest. "Don't leave, don't leave, please don't leave me!"

Ross halts. "Will you listen?"

If only Beth could slap herself, she sounds so, so pathetic, even to her own ears. But she can't do it. She can't be alone for one more cruel, dauntless hour. "Yes." But the rest rushes out, hard and angry, as if she couldn't stand holding it in any longer. "As long as you don't leave me alone again. You have to stay. Stay until I tell you to leave!"

Ross turns back to face her, her gaze weary, but the deal seems made. "And you will answer my questions. The way I want them."

Beth drops her head, sinking back onto the edge of the mattress. "Fine."

"Good." Dr. Ross seems pleased, although the tight squeeze of the skin around her temples never quite leaves her. "Then we shall begin again."

Beth nods. She keeps nodding. She isn't sure what else she can possibly do. But this endless day is never truly over. And Ross continues to come back, time and time again, with a new round of information and lies to swallow. Beth has to accept this. This might be all her life is now. Locked in a room with only Dr. Ross for company.

She misses her mother so badly.

Ross checks Question 346. "And you..." Suddenly, Ross's low tone is cut off by a sob.

The girl is crying. She's trying to keep herself together, but she is coming apart, slowly, like a string being tugged, a shirt unraveling. Her mouth is open in breathless, empty motions of dry heaving. Ross puts down her pen and inhales slowly through her nose.

The image before her is far, far too familiar.

"I believe we shall stop for now."

The girl looks up at her, her eyes wet and unseeing. How long had she been doing this? Was there a moment when she stopped listening? Did she have any idea how important this all was? Ross felt she couldn't have made it any clearer without being overtly conspiratorial. She only had so much room to shimmy through before she was choked by her own collar of HYDRA. Besides, she couldn't give up decades of work over this idiot of a child.

"Did you hear me?" Ross asks quietly.

The girl nods, but with her erratic breathing, it is hard to be sure. Ross accepts this as a good enough response. "Would you like a drink?"

The girl-Beth, Ross corrects herself, so tempting to just leave her nameless, but Richard would scold her needlessly if she ever said it aloud-continues to nod. Just bobbing there. Clearly far away from this room.

Ross cannot help but feel anxious herself. She wants to leave, but yet...she clears her throat. A glance at the camera. She looks at Beth again, but Beth merely attempts to curl up. Her knees bouncing restlessly over the edge. The cuff chain clinking against the handrail. She says nothing.

"Would you like to choose the next topic of conversation?"

Beth stills. She glances at Ross, her face red, and lowers her eyes. "...Okay." Her voice scratches out.

"Excellent. I shall be back."

The over the top reaction Ross had expected from the suggestion of her leaving doesn't come. Surprisingly. The girl just sits there, staring in blank space. Quickly, the doctor smooths her skirt and jacket before she makes her way down the hall.

Beth jerks when she realises that Ross isn't seated in the chair before her. An awareness that her promise was broken, but yet...Finally, the cycle is over. All Ross does is drill her now. She has to be. Drilling her with information about a company called SHIELD and senseless documents about other Agents and Officials and Governmental crap and it just all goes so far over Beth's head, it isn't even funny.

But Beth is alone again. Chained to a bed. With a pounding head and two near broken arms.

And for half a moment, she wishes that man would have killed her.

Stop. She squeezes her eyes tight. No one has hurt her yet. If anything, they are distantly nice. Pain medication and food-not good food or anything- but they aren't starving here. And there was always Ross, whom Beth had become used to. But what else could she turn to now? How could she trust anything Ross said? But… what if Ross was all she had? Could it be that no one else would deal with her? Could it be she just got lucky—lucky that Ross didn't daily tear out one of her bottom teeth, or break her fingers in her left hand one by one until Beth confessed out of sheer misery? Nothing about this place lined up with any horror movie or political prison flick Beth had ever seen before. Surely, there are better things than wishing to die here... and if she did, she'd never see her brother again. She hugs herself tighter. Or her mom.

But God, she allows herself to admit, there has to be something better than this.

The door opens. Beth instantly untangles herself, to try to appear...normal. Something like that. Useful. Not completely, utterly damaged. Her fingers fly to her hair to fix that, too, but It's so strange to not feel the fall of her hair over her shoulders or back. She resists the urge to not touch her hair constantly, the short crop of it lean to her skull. Ross had yelled at her once before over touching her head too often. She'd only make herself bleed again, and this time, Ross had warned her, she'd just let her lie in it.

"Hello again," Ross greets mutely. Her hands, for once, aren't heavy with papers or charts. She is holding two cups of something hot. Beth traces the swirl of steam with her eyes. "I'm back."

Beth isn't sure how to react. Happy? Surprised? It's clear that something stirs in her every time she sees Ross. She just isn't sure if that is entirely safe. "...You are."

Ross looks uneasy as she stands, her controlled face suddenly leaning towards the awkward spectrum of social interaction. "Before I had asked if you wanted a drink. I realized once I had arrived at the break station that you didn't clarify exactly what it is you wanted, so...I just made you what I found."

Beth tentative sniffs the air. Usually the room is so quiet and stale, but now it smells like chocolate. Something minty, too, with cream. The images float into her mind soothingly; the cafe smelled like this not too long ago...she made hot sugary drinks on the daily, smiling to regulars... "Mint hot cocoa?"

Ross raises a brow. "You are familiar with the drink?"

Beth feels caught. Should she lie? What would Ross want from her this time? She decides to smash a bit of it all together. "I have experience in, uh, drink mixing."

Ross nods. "Ah, that's right; your file says you were a barista."

Beth shrinks. Were. So much for that. "...Yeah. Basically."

Ross looks faintly amused. "You have answered my questions enough today. So, you can control the rest of our conversation as you prefer." She brings Beth the drink, careful to not let their hands touch, and then settles back into her chair a few feet away.

Beth holds the cup close, letting the warm seep into her core. "Uh...thanks, I guess."

The following silence is a bit...much. Ross crosses and uncrosses her legs, clearly uncomfortable.

Beth gives up. It's one thing to deal with Ross. It's another to force another person to be here just for an artificial chance to feel...human. She doesn't want this anymore. The drink was nice, though. "Look. You can leave."

Ross raises an eyebrow suspiciously. "But that was not the deal."

"Yeah." Beth says drily. "I don't really care anymore." She drops her eyes to her drink, allowing herself to let go into that numbness once more. This time there doesn't even need to be drugs coursing through her. What did it matter if Ross gave a damn or not? "The deal is off, Dr. Ross. You, uh, can leave whenever you want."

Ross takes a careful sip of her drink, her ring finger tapping at the cup nervously. "I'd prefer to continue what we had planned."

Beth eyes her. "You sure?"

Ross sips again—then makes a face. The expression so disgusted that Beth cracks a half smile. "What?"

Ross coughs faintly, and holds the cup further away from her. "This is dreadful! I knew I shouldn't have just let the water boil without a timer."

Beth glances at her drink. Takes a small sip. Grimaces. It is pretty bad, bland almost, but, it's warm, and tastes minutely of chocolate, so, she isn't letting it go anytime soon. "Wow. This is pretty bad."

"This was not intentional. I want you to understand that, Beth." Ross sets the cup down onto the floor. "I don't," she fiddles with the rest of her confession before deciding to be open. "I don't cook often."

"Really?" Beth considers the idea of how someone could live in a place like this. "Is there some kind of mess hall?"

"No."

"Or kitchen?"

"That is debatable."

"So, what, microwaves all the time?"

Ross smirks. "For me, anyhow. I find no interest in the domestic."

Beth sips again, attempting to relax. However way she can. "No offense, Doctor, but I can tell."

Ross matches her sip, peeling the cup from the floor and drinking without complain. Beth raises her eyebrows. "I thought you just said you hated it?"

Ross seems unnerved, like for once, she is being tested. "I...don't know why I did that. You're right. This is terrible, but I felt the need to do something or else I would feel out of place."

Beth nearly smirks again. The once so cold doctor suddenly so unsure. "Do you, like, not do this often?"

"You're being too vague."

Beth resists the urge to scoff. Being too vague, do you even listen to yourself? "Like...I don't know...you do get together and have like, evil-tea-time, with, your, uh, friends?"

Ross looks nonplussed. "Friends." She smiles a tight smile. "I am sure you have noticed that I am one of the top handlers here, Beth. Do you think I have time to sit and drink with my associates?"

Beth raises her good arm in attempt to show surrender. "I'm sorry, I just...sorry. I was...kidding, I guess." Beth flusters. "Look—why are you doing this?"

Ross studies her. "Talking with you?"

"Yes." Beth answers, her voice taking an edge. "Pretending to care?"

"Pretending." Ross muses. She picks up the cup again and drinks. "You sound so sure of yourself."

Beth flexes the tender knuckles of her broken hand, a reflex of what she wishes she could do. Stand up and throw something at the doctor for toying with her. Maybe even the drink. But she holds the cup tightly. She pushes away the one good thing she had associated to hot drinks. The day she met Steve. Sharing verbal stabs with him over stupid coffee humor.

"Well, I've had time to think." Beth says coldly. "And you have to go and come back from somewhere. This is just another job for you, isn't it."

"Yes. This my job. But I do not have to spend time with you, or bring you drinks. That I did on my own."

Beth lowers her eyes to the floor. "How kind of you."

Silence.

Ross keeps her eyes to her cup. "Beth...may I ask you a personal question?"

Beth burrows her brows. "'Personal'? Don't you and your little organization know everything about me? Isn't that why you're always so angry with me?"

Ross withdrawals. "There are some things data cannot offer, Beth."

Beth wishes she had more to push back with, but she's trapped here. And Ross is the only one that speaks to her anyway…oh, what the hell. "You've used my name about three times now. I guess you're serious, huh?"

"I am trying to be reasonable with you. I know that...this is a complicated matter. I know you do not wish to accept what has happened." Ross says quickly, her eyes averted. "I am afraid that perhaps my years here have removed me from what you are going through."

Years? Beth tucks that one away for later. Hopefully. If there is a later. "Okay. Go on."

Ross slowly closes her fingers around the cup, holding it delicately, giving it a gentle squeeze. "When you were with Captain Rogers, did he ever mention his...I'm sure he'd refer to them as 'friends'."

Beth swallows. Steve always had so many friends. Friends that made Beth nervous and excited and almost feel…welcomed. What were they to her now? Enemies? Her heart squeezes uncomfortably as she thinks them; the older man with a taunt face and short blond hair. The giggling one with her cellphone addiction and, Jane-that was her name, Jane-that seemed so earnest to be friends, their names sliding in and out of focus, but their faces clear as they had stared at her from around the table. "Yeah. He did."

Ross's eyes strike Beth's hotly. "Do you recall any particular names?"

Beth breathes out through her nose, unsure of how to play this out. Ross obviously was searching for someone in Beth's memories. But to what end? Another test? "That…depends. I met...three women, one being Natasha, and two men."

"Two men?"

"Yes." One, beyond a doubt, was obviously Thor. The fucking Lord of Thunder, that Beth was too blind to see. Ronda had convinced her of this now. His glowing eyes, his strength, his strikingly handsome face. His strange manner of speaking. "Thor. And...uh." Beth struggles for the other man. The lean one with tense, powerful looking arms. "I don't know the other. Something...maybe with a K?"

Ross's eyes almost seem...captivated. Her entire body steeled, her drink posed. Her voice seems distant. "I see."

Beth scrambles to give Ross what she wants. The older woman had never looked so vulnerable. Beth had to catch that line. She had to make the jump. This was important. This could possibly keep her alive. "Uh, uh," Beth carefully shifts her arm in her sling. "There was..God, I know there was one more."

Ross clicks her eyes to Beth's once again. "Yes?"

Her brain is wracked, digging through piles and piles of hours that had made up her life within the past week. "He was...Steve said he was…" Suddenly, Beth's eyes widen. Of course. That doctor. Steve would have mentioned that at the table, meeting him for the first time. So it wasn't the man with the arms. It was...someone else. "A doctor." Beth finally answers.

Ross blinks. She sets the cup down. "Thank you." She says quietly.

Beth can feel the hook deep in her spine. That doctor friend of Steve's. Surely, that was it. This meant something to Ross. But what, Beth couldn't be sure. "I...I…" Beth struggles. "Steve never told me his name. But he...he was kind to him. He obviously helped Steve a lot. Probably all of them."

She feels stupid confessing what she had thought all along about Steve's absent friend. But it's all she's got. But maybe..that could be enough. Maybe...she could be useful without being what HYDRA wanted her to be.

If it matters to Ross. If Ross really could...care.

The doctor pulls her fingers through her dark hair and, once again, her eyes seem clear. "Thank you." She glances at the door. "I'm afraid I must go soon."

"Sure," Beth says tiredly. She takes a sip of her drink again, the warm liquid making her feel a bit better. "Uh...thank you for, um." Beth can't define what had just happened. She drops her eyes. "Sorry if that wasn't what you wanted to hear."

Ross is at the door, but she doesn't turn to face Beth again in her usual way of departing. "No, Beth." Her tone seems unusually content. "Thank you."

And with that, Ross is gone. The faint stream of her drink along the floor the last remaining evidence that Beth didn't dream their conversation.

Beth settles back onto the bed and slowly finishes her drink, lurking through her memories, for faces and names and imaginary ties to what Ross could want. Was it what Ross wanted? Or HYDRA? There wasn't any mark on a pad. It all seemed entirely in Ross's head alone.

Maybe, Beth thought to herself, feeling trapped and alone made her think in this crazy way.

Perhaps, it was just all in her head, too.

She doesn't answer her Com. And Elizabeth always, always answer her calls. Richard is convinced it's in her blood to be as astringent humanly possible.

Hell, it's probably why the orderlies joke that she isn't even human. Just like The Winter Soldier.

Ugh. The gossip around here is enough to make Richard nauseous from the tedium of smaller minds. Perhaps Elizabeth's no nonsense attitude is one of the many reasons they could get along so well across the years. Except for, of course...the locked door before him.

Betty was never exactly open, physically or emotionally. And yet. Something was wrong. He could feel it.

Richard stops at the door. Knocks. Once.

It weakly draws open.

As he steps inside, Richard can barely recognize where he is standing.

It can't possibly be Dr. Elizabeth Ross's room.

It's been destroyed.

The floor is covered in ringlets of shattered glass. Ruined books and dust covers litter the floor. Simple pictures are gone, ripped apart with what looks to be bare hands.

He finds her sitting at her desk, shoulders hunted, head folded, twisting aimlessly.

"Betty?.." Richard asks, his tone a mix of relief and concern. Elizabeth doesn't move.

"She's going to die," is all she says, her voice distraught. "I'm out of time."

Richard places a hand on her shoulder, his head low. "What do you need?"

She pulls away from his touch. Richard allows his hand to fall back his side. "I...I don't know."

Richard smiles sadly. "You've never said that before in your entire life."

Elizabeth turns to him, her eyes tight. "Richard...I believe this is it."

He looks around the room. He's never really been in here before, beyond maybe one or two times. Too little, too late, he supposes. "Yeah, I know, Bet. I know."

She turns away, lifts up her hands, freckled with cuts and veins. She had always hated how they looked, even in her youth. "I hear their whispers about me." Elizabeth murmurs, slowly closing her fingers over her palms, unwilling to look at him. "Do you believe them? Do you think I am a fool for him?"

Richard considers this. "You've been with Barnes for years. It's an honor that no one else will be able to understand. Or replicate. One of a kind, from how I see it."

He sounds so earnest. But Richard has always put up with her. She nearly believes him. She looks up, fully, her eyes bleak and tired. "You didn't answer my question."

There are fine lines in his face that expose his age. He is nearly a decade younger than Elizabeth, and yet he is so delicately aged. Just like her. And everything he has left behind. Elizabeth studies his face affectionately. Had she never noticed before how handsome his face was, framed by his glasses, or how dedicated his ear? Did his wife notice such details? Elizabeth feels she could count the soft feather of grey crowning around his window's peak. So many years between them...her only friend.

"I have a son." Richard tells her solemnly. "I would die for him."

Elizabeth lets the weight of Richard's consent wash over her as she drops her head. "Thank you." Her voice feels tight, exposed, a raw wound crafted from what she can never truly be. "Thank you, Richard."

"Anything for you, Betty." He reaches a finger under her chin to bop her to look up at him. She cannot help but give a small laugh as she pushes his arm away. Somehow, someway, Richard had always managed to bring a human lightness into this miserable place.

"You tease!"

Richard grins lazily at her, rolls his shoulder, fixes his frames as they slide down the thin outline of his nose. "You started this a long time ago."

Elizabeth grasps his hand and presses a light kiss onto the back of it. "Yes. I need to finish this. For both our sakes."

Richard studies her face for a long time.

"I know you will." He returns, his voice curt, and the answer simple.

Hours. Hours. Hours. Beth isn't sure how long, once more, it's been. Her quiet jail cell is only punctuated by when Ross arrives and...

"You are coming with me, Miss Ore." Ross clarifies bluntly. Today it is all 'Miss Ore'. If their shared cups of terrible cocoa meant anything in their last meeting, Ross certainly doesn't show it. After their usual cycle of questioning, Beth isn't prepared for the sudden change.

Beth faintly considers the idea. "As in, leaving this room to be tied down in another? Not what I really want, right?"

"Would a bit of walking about feel good to you?"

"What?" Beth stills. She didn't entirely expect that to work. Everyone else ignores her with a cult-like religiousness.

"If you want to be considered an Agent of SHIELD, you have to act the part. You can't just stew there. Take a deep breath and I will return to unlock you. Do not look at the camera monitoring us."

Beth keeps her neck straight, eyes centered away as she is told. "What are you doing?" Her voice drops. "Is this a test?"

"No, but you can pretend it is; you're going to accompany me today. I will unlock you but I insist that you stay minimal in your movements. You can walk on your own but you must stay within arm's reach of me at all times. We're going to be completing my rounds, and that includes examining James."

Beth's heart skips. "Wh—You mean the man that attacked me? Are you fucking kidding me?! No! There is no way I'm going near him."

In a single, smooth turn Ross faces Beth again. Her face is just as rigid, but her lips slack into a tense frown, as if she's already had enough of dealing with the blonde, and their companionship had just started. "Believe me. This you'll want to see."

Beth shudders the word. "No."

"It will, 'make you feel better', as Richard would like me to say."

Beth looks around the empty room, her good hand already shifting to hold the sling tighter to her side. "…I don't have a choice, do I?"

"You catch on fast, Miss Ore." The doctor seems to relax at the confession. "My colleague said I should at least try to make you—comfortable." Her nose tightens on the final word. "But Richard was always far too doting. You'll find that we, too, could get along well, if you just keep yourself collected. Can you do that? As my patient?"

Beth takes in the woman before her. She's much older than her, that wasn't too hard to guess, but there is more than just age. The padded coat, the sharp heels, the curl of her dark hair. The way her lips curve outwards into an ever refined scowl. That bag she always had, like it was connected to her. What was so important to have that thing at all times? Beth felt like she hardly saw Ross without it.

"I'm…your patient?" So it was true. Maybe this place really was an asylum, if Beth can just pretend such a thing could exist here, for just a moment, it could begin to make sense. Sense is logic. Logic is clear thinking. Clear thinking would mean….escape. "So…so…why are we going to see…" Beth has to focus on not just referring to that man for exactly what he was—a senseless, horrifying—"him?"

"Because if Pierce expects me to monitor both you and James I'm going to have to make some compromises. He'll understand, I'm sure. Also, I apologize for snapping at you earlier." She sets her teeth into a stern smile." See? Now, hurry, hurry."

The cuff is unlocked. The door is opened and Dr. Ross picks up her already swift speed as Beth nervously trails behind, her left arm wrapped tight around herself. The hallway is empty and the lights dim. So maybe it really was night time…What are we doing out so late?

"So…so….Head Secretary of Defense, Alexander Pierce—he's…he controls that thing?"

"Yes. Because the idiots in Basic think that cognitive repercussions don't exist, and isn't the definition of insanity to repeat the same action over and over expecting a different outcome? It's insanity they're performing. So many times I've had to sit there and watch the leaver go down over him and no one wants to believe that it isn't working anymore. I've been working with the entire staff for years and Pierce still doesn't believe that what I'm performing makes sense. It is what's necessary. The human mind is delicate function of neurons that are tossed around and beaten with every electronic wave burst through him and they expect him to return to his glory state at the end of it all. The reality is that it's getting worse."

"Would you stop that?" Beth hisses out, aggravated. This is the 'are you aware you were mistreated by the Avengers Initiation bullshit' all over again. Like a code. Like some secret double-talk between Ross's job and Ross's less than direct advice. "If you want to talk to me, you'll have to talk to me."

"Sorry." There is almost something like a sight look of approval along Ross's angular face. "I feel as if I can talk to you because you have no idea what's going on. It's rather nice. Besides, you and I are both aware that you are no real Agent of SHIELD. Pierce is delusional as ever."

"SHIELD—What is that?"

"Precisely. Along with you, supposedly, not knowing who Rogers was."

"I—I didn't…" Beth begins carefully, unsure how to explain that she was stupid enough to to investigate Steve by herself.

"No," Ross suddenly snaps, peering over Beth. "Don't ever say that. You can't just answer questions too hastily. If they think for a second that you've given them all you know they'll kill you without a second thought." She leans away, face taught. "There are no prisoners with HYDRA."

So I've heard, Beth thinks,but she feels the rush of adrenaline spike anyway, pins and needles under her heels. "What does it matter what I say, Doctor Ross? You're the only person that talks to me. It's like…I'm invisible. They don't even care that I'm here?"

"You get used to it," Ross agrees.

"I don't even know your first name, either." Beth attempts, once more, for some sense of company. It was a stupid and desperate act, like something from a bad Stockholm syndrome movie.

The approval is gone. "Can't get too attached, Miss Ore."

"Figures." Beth allows. "Steve never said the name of his friend that would be waiting for me, either."

Ross chuckles dryly. An actual soft laugh from the back of her throat. "You cling to that story extraordinarily well. Rogers is in the wrong business for friends. And so are you."

They're before the door, some kind of level—D8 – R3— signifier. If the letters actually indicted a depth and floor level, how deep underground where they?

Beth holds her arm closer to herself. Ronda. Her mother. Her brother. Did they know what happened to her yet? Would she ever seen them again?

"You'll be meeting Pierce soon." Ross fills the silence calmly. "Sooner than I had hoped, if I must be honest with you."

"I wondered when I finally would." Beth replies dully. "I…I suppose I just…tell him the truth?"

Ross pauses, fingers to the keypad. "Have you listened to a word I said? You have to lie."

Beth's grows kit together in exasperation. "About what? I'm telling you the truth!"

"Data is slowly being leaked in about you. You have to try." Ross turns again, one hand tightly holding to her medical bag. "You can't allow yourself to be afraid of him."

"Pierce isn't the one I'm afraid of, Doctor."

The doctor's cold eyes inspect Beth one more time, as if debating what she is doing, but the motion is gone in a flash. "You are wrong."

The door opens. A hiss of steam from the heavy locks. Beth steps back. From the doorway she can make out the vastness of the chamber inside. The temperature is deceivingly colder than the regulated hallways. The room is more like a time capsule than another medical room. Nothing like Beth's. The walls are filled with cabinets and metal, heavy looking equipment and...Beth feels her blood freeze in her veins. The man. That man. That monster.

Beth is pushed inside by Ross, a hand under her good arm to guide her in without much resistance. In truth, there wasn't anything much to be alarmed about. The man was lying on his back across a large, metal operating table. His eyes closed. His face relaxed. Sleeping, Beth considered. But his face...

His face...Beth takes a long moment memorize the details: jaw locked, long brown hair twisted and knotted to the side of his face. The mask that had hidden his mouth exposed, dull, pale skin, faintly covered in unshaven dark stubble. He looks more dying than dangerous.

"He will not hurt you." Ross forces her further still. "Trust me."

Beth breaks away and walks backwards, presses her back to the wall, refusing to come any further. She takes in the chamber once more. Their voices echo back and forth as if reinforced by layers upon layers of plated steel. The room seems more and more like an all-in-one isolated personnel bay. There is a sink against the wall, sat between more cabinets of canned goods and other chemical looking containers. Four large computer screens hang above a large, mechanical looking chair at the center of the room.

"I came here because you said I didn't have a choice. If I don't have to get close to him, than that is my prerogative."

"Suit yourself," Ross thankfully allows. She flows into the room without hesitation and quickly begins what Beth can only assume is her usual rotation of making sure that the man was…still alive. She sets her medical bag down and washes her hands. Adjusts her coat.

Beth silently watches as Ross slides on gloves and carefully moves the flat of her hand to touch the man's forehead. She frowns, almost angrily, and moves on. She grasps at his human arm and checks the dead weight of the metal one without much fuss. When the man makes a low, pained sound, she stops.

Instantly, the woman that Beth had known as Dr. Ross seems spirited away. She looks almost alarmed, crossed at herself, and she quickly touches the monster's face, a soft movement that twists Beth's insides. It reminds her of how her mother might touch her face and…

…Oh my God.

It's so painfully obvious, exposed to possibly Beth and Beth alone, but Ross...Ross cares about him, this...mindless...empty...cares that he lives through the next plight. Cares that he continues his missions. More than just her job. Cares far more than she seemed to care about Beth. The blonde locks down her paranoia.

Ross was all she had, even if that meant her only source was...probably dedicated to a murderer. Probably...slightly deranged in her methods.

Years, Beth reminds herself. Ross had said she had be working here for years.

With a low, suppressed moan, more animal sounding than man, the monster is upright. Beth is ripped from her thoughts, startled at his suddenly wakefulness.

Listing to one side, the man appears almost intoxicated. Ross carefully places the soft, flat palm of her hand to center him—Beth's killer, the man coated in black, without a mouth or expression, that clearly wanted her dead—and he can hardly sit up.

Ross seems keen to answers Beth's unspoken observations. "He doesn't look like much now, does he?"

Beth's breathing slows, but her eyes sprint the length of the man's body, the muscles of his arms, the length of his hair, her thoughts screaming that this is the man, this shallow breathing, hunched over form, the soldier that attacked her. And yet. And yet. How? How could the short time between the monster then and the man now make such short work of him?

"You don't believe me, do you?" Dr. Ross intones mildly. "You'll think he'll listen no matter what I tell you. No matter how damaged or tired, you truly think he is that inhuman?"

Beth resists the urge to nod. Yes. That is exactly what is going to happen.

"Shall I prove it to you?" Ross carefully pulls her hand away from the man's side, forcing him to support himself. Ross places herself directly in front of the man's face and says, "Fetch me a cup of water, comrade." Ross lightly points a finger at the sink. "Halfway full."

Beth turns to stare at the man, refusing to blink, refusing to miss a single movement. But he doesn't move. At least, not at first.

It is almost as if Ross's words are falling from a high place, like rushing water over a mountain cliff, or a water basin sinking through a river bed of flat stone. That is the only way Beth can describe what it is like to see just how slowly the order seems to reach the man. Slowly. Patiently. His eyes adjust first, drifting his head upwards until they find what they are looking for: the sink. Then, he places the palm of his hands onto his thighs. Then he stops moving once more. Like an old car. He stalls. Suddenly, a leg is on the floor—followed by the other—and the man is standing. Beth cannot help but to take a step back, no matter how slow the movement.

The height of him, the weight of his footstep. Even the way his hands dangle limply at his sides. There is no mistaking it: this is the man in the mouthless mask.

But there isn't an electricity in the air this time. No calculated breathing or searching blue eyes.

The man before her now is pale, already dripping with sweat along his hairline, like the act of getting water was already too great a task. His mouth barely opens, but his breathing is tight in the quiet of the chamber. He lists again, unbalanced, and his eyes flutter for a moment before, with a horrible clattering of bones and metal on title, he falls.

The length of his body and arms are wide and long. The fall would have nearly been at Beth's feet had she not stood back. She simply stares at the body on the floor, tense, waiting: a trick, a single wrong movement, and this man would pounce on her. This can't be real. This can't be all there is to her attempted killer. Beth's entirely head feels stuffed with cotton, fuzzy and dense. Almost distant. She didn't used to be this way, she can faintly find that feeling, that compassion she had for someone that had fallen... An old man at the cafe... Ronda after one too many…. catching herself on some stairs once or twice. Stev…

But, in the distant hum of the chamber, with the monster balled at her feet, Beth only feels numb.

This man is so...pathetic. She almost wants to laugh, mirthless, cruel, just like me.

"You keep telling me that I shouldn't be afraid of him." Beth's voice weavers nervously. But she boldly continues on. "And I don't think I can ever not be afraid of him, but..." she gingerly touches the back of her head. The bandages there. She stares back down at James. The sweat down his face, staining his shirt as his labored breathing echoes against the steel corners of the room. "But fine." She searches for a reason to not start kicking the man before her. Again and again with a deep, passionate fury...but she merely feels the trickle of a distant pity. Another time before all of this...when she wanted to be a doctor, too. "I believe you."

Dr. Ross's eyes pool into Beth's, searching, and seem to be satisfied with what she finds. "Good girl. I believe you can better understand now."

The unasked question burns in her stomach. "Is...is this what Pierce plans to do with me...if he doesn't kill me?"

Dr. Ross's face hardens again. "No. You will be killed. Unquestioningly. This process for my patient has been decades in the making and Pierce, clearly, will not stop it now. You are not him."

Beth considers this, surprisingly calm, with all this talk of her death. "Decades?"

"This is what he is like when he is not Activated." Ross informs her. The doctor scrunches down, carefully gaining hold over the man on the floor, helping him sit up once more.

Activated. Ross makes the soldier seem like a wind-up toy. Or, worse, a 1960s' B-movie with long winded speeches about communism and sleeper agents and other stuff that was so preposterously insane that it was laughable then as it was as a geek-show to the most current generation. But then again, B-movie plots also included aliens—and Beth had already seen one of America's largest cities crumble to its knees in horror at that new found reality.

"Aren't soldiers basically soldiers all the time?" Just like Steve was. Beth winces, re-focuses herself. She can't allow Steve in now. Just Dr. Ross, and this…person…and Beth, locked under a lost mountain of ice. "How can someone be…practically two different people? With—what? A code? A drug?" Beth glances again at terrifying looking mechanical chair in the center of the room. "With that?"

James is sitting up now, but he looks unnerved at the women before him, as if he had just realized he wasn't alone. Or on the floor. His exhausted eyes trail around the room, stopping over Beth for only a moment, before casually moving on. He moves a hand-the human one-to grasp the arm of the doctor. For a second, Beth freezes, hearing the sound of bone snapping so clear in her ears she believes it real- but Ross isn't in any pain. If anything, her collected features seem softer. Ross returns the gesture by gently patting James' hand.

"Yes. Those are all logical theories, Ore. The real answer is far simpler, however. Time. It just takes time. He wasn't always like this. Records dating from July, 1947, state that he was once spirited and full of ire. Possibly even had a will to escape." Ross raises her hand to gently move the strands of hair that had stuck to his face through the night, sticky with sweat. "This is all that is left."

Beth looks at the man again, having to be held up by a woman half his height. A man three times her size, reduced to a weak, senseless object in this place. Studies Dr. Ross. Her motion are far more maternal that they should look, between lab coat and tubes and the dead look in the man's eyes.

1947…This can't be the man that nearly killed her. This man cannot possible be two entirely different people. Perhaps even a third—the boy from the newspaper. …Barnes? Yes. That is what it was. His name was James, too, but this man before her….could he be the man that had crushed her hand, torn muscle and bone, split her skull until it was a red stain on a kitchen wall?

"Do you see this tube?" Ross gestures to yet another human sized device along the chamber's edges. "It is called a Cryochamber. It offers a sort of stasis that freezes cells and brain matter into a state of mass suspension. It has been upgraded over the years as science has evolved to have other benefits but the one role remains absolute: agelessness."

"So…so if he's like this the whole time…how is he…'activated'?" Beth turns to study the machine—so cold, so dense and surreal-looking. It even has iron locks to hold own limbs from moving. A cage. Just like this entire building. Just like the entire recent moments of her life that landed her here. In a funny sort of way, she doubts that there are any self-help books could cover any of this. If she ever gets to go home. If she ever gets to read again. She imagines what it might be like to sit in that chair. She imagines what it might be to be forced into that Cryochamber. Did he have any idea what is happening to him? She guesses James couldn't know any more than she does about her own fate.

God, what is this place?

"Beth." Dr. Ross collects the blonde's attention once more. There's a new line of tension in her face that sets Beth's heart to pick up speed. Sweat is starting to line under Beth's arms and along the back of her neck, itching her wounds. Something horrible happens in this room. Beth can only imagine what they've done to that man. Could it be….could he be the scream that had accompanied her all this time? "Are you listening?"

Beth pulls away from her thoughts, unsure of what is to follow. "Yes?"

The doctor heaves the soldier from off of the floor, staggering with his weight as she pulls him up to full height once more. She guides him back to sit along the table and places her hand cross his knee, silently. The man seems, once more, completely unaware of her. "I am going to keep moving my lips. And you are going to keep listening. Is that understood?"

Beth stiffens. She has to physically stop herself from looking around the room. "…Doctor?"

And then, slowly, Ross continues on lightly with a turn of her head. It's true, her lips still moving, but Beth can't make out anything she's saying at all. Ross just keeps herself pointedly at the door. She trails her fingers along the man's side and along his shoulder as she steps behind him.

Beth tenses, confused. "What are you doing?"

A beat. Beth breathes in. A beat. Ross slowly reaches into her coat and—

"I SAID YOU CAN'T DO THIS—" Ross roars, her teeth baring hot and angry and there is a gun in her hands—no—the man's hands—and—BANG.

Beth understands what is happening before she even sees it: a gun. A gun being fired. And then, without warning, the man's arm, the metal one, is pointed upwards—BANG—a second shot, where? Where? Beth drops to the floor, jabbing her tongue with her teeth, her body rippling in sore protest—resisting the urge to scream—no pain, no pain, she thinks, not at me? but she frantically looks around to find that the camera monitoring the control room was merely splinters of smoke and glass; BANG— the sound causing Beth to jump. In an effort to duck low, she smashes her head hard into the floor, stunning her. The room swirls for a moment and then returns: James hasn't moved. Not an inch. But the dark skin of a gun is still there, loose between his fingers. But Dr. Ross moves, stepping backwards, her hands suddenly raised above her head in a rigid, practiced manner. Her face is unreadable.

From the floor, Beth can only stare up at her in desperation. "Are you fucking insane!?"

"Don't act so naive." Dr. Ross keeps the mask of her face entirely collected, but she keeps her voice loud. Amazingly, the man still doesn't seem aware of it. The gun, the sounds, Ross, Beth sprawled on the floor, any of it. "I know who you are."

Beth scrambles to sit up, twisting her bad arm, and only answers Ross with a gasp of pain.

"What are you doing?! What the hell?" Beth twists to watch the smolder, small fire contained with the monitor. She's surprised alarm bells are already firing off. Beth can only guess that an army of hundreds of other dark suited men are racing down the halls right now and she's just lying here, dying, probably already dead, and why?! "Why did you do this?"

Carefully, Ross lowers her hand. She moves deliberately, exaggeratedly as she plucks the gun from the man's limp fingers, and steadily raises it once more, directly at Beth's stomach.

"You have taken me hostage." Ross answers decidedly. "How could I have known?"

Beth feels her chest crushing inwards, her lungs inhaling sharply. Her voices leaves her, a whispery rush of words: "Ross? What is going on?"

"Yes," Ross answers slowly. "You know Pierce is coming to get you. Tonight, in fact. Look through my files all you like. It doesn't change that you are going to die." With the barrel of the gun, Ross motions for Beth to stand.

Beth lifts herself unsteadily from the floor, but there is no where to move. The door behind her is sealed tightly. And that gun. The man. Ross has her pinned. Her mind races. Fear grips her stomach. Her legs shake. She swallows roughly, resisting the urge to cry. She can't cry. This is happening. This is the reality she is in and she can't run away from it anymore.

"Your thoughts are correct. The alarm has been triggered and this entire base is going to be over-riding the door to unlock in minutes." Ross carefully tilts her head. "Do you really think you can survive this? Even with all your training? As if Fury understands what HYDRA truly is."

Beth feels herself shaking with adrenaline. "I—I can barely move my hands. I've never fought anyone in my entire life. I—"

Ross clenches her teeth and Beth feels like she's entered into a new world as she watches Ross mouth the words: 'you are ruining everything you stupid girl'. Her nose flared, her eyes glittering in barely contained rage.

Beth grips at her arm sling, defenseless. "What do you what from me?!"

Ross rolls the gun in her grip, finger laced through the trigger. Instantly, she drops her aim, but her eyes stay to Beth, wide and absolute. A pleading look wraps the faint smile along her jaw. With the overhead lights pouring down, her dark hair looks silver, like a crown of barbed wire. Ross shuts her eyes tight but two straight lines escape from their corners far too quickly—tears. Actual teals, draining down her face.

"There are moments in your life that will never leave you." Ross begins, clear and broken, into the shared space between the two women. "They're not just memories—they're places. Huge, consuming. You could live inside of them." Suddenly, Ross's pale eyes are open, engaging like end of a sword, shortening the dance between their gazes, all at once an aggressive open attack and a sorrow filled yield, forcing Beth to engage her words with a final, cutting grace: "Do you want to live inside of this moment for what remains of the rest of your life, Ore?"

No, the word appears and disappears in the space of Beth's mind. No, it screams, clawing its way from the depths of her chest, past her lungs, into her throat, and out of mouth with a fight she had never felt before. NO! The word leaves her lips easily. 

Ross's thin lips force a sincere smile through her tears. "Good. Now, there are ten words that separate you from death. Ten seemingly random phrases. Would you like to know what they are?"

She's insane. She's insane, but hears herself whispering that familiar mantra, but didn't I think that about myself once? She keeps those thoughts inside, because, right now, as stares at Ross and breathes, Beth couldn't imagine anything more beautiful than being given a second chance.

I can't die here.

"Tell me."

Ross raises the gun without hesitation and Beth never takes her eyes from its sight.

"Good. First, basics. Three rules. Keep up. One: Once you start the phrase, you must complete the phrase. Saying the words out of order won't have any effect. Backwards, too. But each word in the proper phrase triggers a complete psychotic upheaval." Ross hesitates, her wary attention slipped from Beth to another thought. "Well, it used to not matter, but since Pierce has decided to ignore years of my work—and continue the final assault on James' neurons, I couldn't even tell you what would happen. A guess? Total incapacitation—probably ranging from whatever word you stop on. Vomiting? Temporary catatonia? Anyhow…the important thing is that if you're in danger, if you need James, you must complete the phrase, or he'll be equally unless to you. Is that understood?"

Beth flickers her eyes to James, Ross, back to the gun. "Just words…can do all of that?"

"Words are very powerful, Beth."

"I…" Beth forces herself to believe when she says, "Okay. I understand."

"Secondly: The transition to subordinance is completed by a call and response. The call is 'Soldier', his response is always 'ready to comply'. This is absolutely vital. The exchange must be completed between you both—or else James' could be controlled by anyone. This will attach him to your orders."

"And if he doesn't respond?"

"Then you're very much in danger."

Beth lowers her head, her mouth dry. "And the final one?"

"Yes. The final one." Ross steels herself before Beth, shoulders held strictly, her chin lifted. "James Barnes, like any of the Avengers, is a living weapon. Never forget that. Never forget what they've—what I've—done to him."

And with that, Ross walks smoothly from around the table, the gun still held tight in her grasp.

Beth lifts her head. "Why are you helping me?"

"Maybe I'm not." Ross flashes a bitter smile. "Maybe I'm damning you. What's that saying about the road of good intentions and all? Built on the bodies of the people like you and me?"

Beth flexes her sore fingers again. "But I can see it in you! You…care about him! You care about—" Beth has to say it—now is not the time to— "James! But he's a monster! A monster you're telling me you helped control?! You know what he does to people!"

Ross's voice runs cold. She keeps the gun steady but moves ever so closer to Beth, closing the distance. "Do you really think in such pathetic attributes? You throw the word 'love' and 'monster' around and you think you understand?"

Beth knows Ross has the upper hand but she can't help but to step forward aggressively. "Then help me understand! Who are you really saving here?"

"I've been down here for fifteen years." Ross snarls. "Before that? I had a life, just like yours. I had friends and a father that I was afraid of disappointing and I worried about retirement plans. Now? I've just been lucky to be alive to see when Gods fell to earth, when men returned from the dead, stronger and faster than their youth, when space decided to chew up our military defenses like popcorn—and you think that just because you're here now, I'm giving it up?"

One swift turn and Ross rounds on Beth, grabbing the girl's face with her open hand, forcing Beth to look her in the eye. "You change nothing." A strangled inhale close to Beth's ears. The doctor's narrow features contour, twist, pale skin clinging to cheekbones; Beth cannot help but watch the emotional pendulum swing over Ross's face, half sane—as she whispers the next words: "This was all meant to happen. I've studied it. I've seen it. The patterns that cycle through history—you think specifics matter, but they don't. Merely outliners. If not me, than another doctor. If not you, then another spy…if not James….then someone else in his place."

Beth slips from Ross's grasp, her jaw aching, her heart erratic in her chest. Ross turns away from her, her clockwork pace unperturbed as she circles the room, returning to the man's side. Beth runs her fingers over the rough sewing of the sling weakly. Fifteen years Ross confessed to being here. Fifteen years. What the hell was she talking about?! Was she…was she driven insane by this place?

"If—if you think this doesn't matter, why try?"

"Because you're bringing them here, like it or not, and now my work is going to be destroyed. I saw the device that you had in your hands on the camera. I've never seen anything like it before. Do you know what it was meant for?"

"No. But I just get the feeling you like asking me questions you know I can't answer," Beth retorts.

"Cute. Of course you wouldn't." The doctor's tone is almost despondent. "Regardless, the timer found within it means time is short. I figured if the enviable is coming, I could hold it off for a little longer. That is, if you can manage it. I have my doubts you can't."

"Thanks," Beth concedes shortly.

Ross breathes in deeply and collects herself again. "But you…you saved yourself." Ross confesses slowly. "You know the man for which this device is meant. And, in a way, he saved you, too. And…I can't…" Her voice shakes. "I can't allow that go to waste. I don't expect you to understand what I am doing. But I hope you can play along accordingly."

A banging at the door. Beth's attention snaps to the pounding. Voices. Many of them. The two women hold their places. Her heart speeds double time, her breathing loud. Ross offers the gun. Beth can't bring her left arm to raise. The word feels disconnected from her. "Now?"

"Yes. Now. And for God's sake, I hope I'm right about you. And James. Quickly." Ross offers the gun once more. Her speech is more teeth than words when she orders: "Take it from me."

Beth's hand raises and the weight of the gun is locked between her grasp. "Ross—" Beth pants, the blood rushing to her head. "What are the words?!"

"Do you remember what I said? You have to be the one that says them. My bag, hurry."

Gun in hand, Beth runs to the bag and refiles through it, expecting a pile of papers, but she only draws up a single, crumpled, palm length note. The pounding on the door is louder. Quickly, Beth raises a gun at the chest of the man before her, forcing her fingers to lace around the trigger. She studies the note once more.

Longing, Rusted, Seventeen, Daybreak, Furnace, Nine, Benign, Homecoming, One, Freightcar

The fatal thought dances in her head—if this goes wrong, I have to kill him.

Longing, Rusted, Seventeen, Daybreak, Furnace, Nine, Benign, Homecoming, One, Freightcar

If this goes wrong, I have to kill him.

Her hand shakes. The gun's aim twists back, forth, along the man's chest. As if finally noticing the tension, the man—James— looks up, straight into Beth's eyes—expressionless. Shallow. Attempting to focus on her.

She sucks a breath in.

Out.

"NOW! DO IT NOW!" Ross screams, her hands raised upwards.

Beth jams her eyes shut and screams the words. They rip from her mouth like verbal gunfire—one right after the other. Between the sound of the army outside, Ross screaming, and the drumming pound of her own heart beat inside of her head, Beth cannot hear the choking, frothing struggle as the man before he slides to the ground, convulsing screaming, clawing at the ground and then—

And then.

Beth squeezes her eyes open. She expected to be dead by now, but the world has stopped. She wets her lips. Keeps her gun trained on the man, lifting himself up by his hands and knees, before her.

"S—Soldier?"

Her killer looks up at her knowingly. His blue eyes dancing with this moment, focused on Beth and Beth alone.

"Ready to comply."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Thank you guys for all the support throughout the years. It means more than each of you know.
> 
> Stronger chapter soon. Thank you for reading, and, I hope, still enjoying. c:


	47. Rabbits in a Snow Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: *updated for a few tyeos. Looks like I'm still the same writer for those, eh, guys?
> 
> BAM! COMMIN' AT CHA LIVE AND FAST.
> 
> This chapter title is totally a reference to the Marvel Netflix series "Daredevil" /WINK/hinthintnodnod/ if you're into that kind sexy stuff. Which I know you guys totally are. I'M WATCHING YOU, FANDOM. I KNOW WHAT YOU LIKE.
> 
> So when we last left Tony and Bruce, things looks...pretty damn bad. Just. Jesus. Wow.
> 
> Uh..you guys gonna be okay?
> 
> ...Guys?...
> 
> Thanks again to my lovely editor!

Tony is talking to him.

Bruce knows Tony is talking to him, but he can't turn away from that sound as the Avengers' Tower, groaning under the weight of floor after floor of steel, snaps under itself, like a branch in the wind. Tony's dark eyes shrink back in pain, as if the noise had physically wounded him.

With a mouth of smoldering ash the building screeches as it falls, red windows reaching out with hands of fire, and is gone within four shuddering heartbeats that ram into Bruce's lungs as he continues to stare.

Something horrible has happened, Bruce thinks, sinking, into the snow, staring up at a mountain of ash and smoke, unable to focus or move, only helpless to watch. But it's not me.

He blinks, again, again, as he begins to catch onto the leering screams of traffic stalling into a heart stopping pop of noiseless panic. People are running. Formless figures painted brown and tan, black, purple, are staggering in the distance, twisting together like a human chain, all mixed up and disoriented, as the sky seems to be bellowing fire once again.

Except, this time, Bruce understands. He understands traffic flow and news helicopters. He can make sense of the world. And this, this is an uncomfortable realization to Bruce, because this is usually how his waking always begun, knuckles clawing into the dirt, staring up at the terror he had created.

But he doesn't feel used up yet.

His eyes are too weak to really see if anything, even the skeleton of the Tower remains, but the faint, chilling breeze floats the taste of ash into his gaping mouth. Metal, acidic, full of chemicals that make his nostrils flare up in a full forced, bone-ringing cough. And it is within this moment, Bruce senses the same thought, the same weak, spine-popping lurch, one final agonizing breath that brings him home to humanity again. A deep, bleeding voice squeezes his head like a vice and staggers him, saying: you are still alive, why are you still alive?

And something beneath his skin stabs outward, demanding, punishing him for it. And Bruce welcomes it, leaning into the elation like an old friend: A shared hatred so explosive and yearning, it is as if Bruce couldn't have wished for the building to crumble sooner. He gags into the snow beneath him as the smell of blood yanks his brain, fleshy, defenseless, trapped inside his skull. It's absolutely primal; a lust so powerful it almost feels orgasmic. Tingling, giddy, a base of the neck whisper that says don't you want this, don't you need this? And yes, he can feel his fists taking the form of a boiling, shrieking force, yes, I do, he answers, with bones humming and skin tightly aching, stretching outwards from his body to taste the soft, meaningless world surrounding him.

He wants them to scream. He wants to taste the salt and wetness of man flesh ripping through the sharp bones of a monster's teeth. His eyes are heady with the sight of it. His mouth watering. He can be free now. He can run. He can live, god, isn't this what he was meant for, isn't this what he is always waiting for?

Suddenly, Bruce's beautiful vision is covered in bile, and the air stinks of sickness.

His nose twists away, disgusted, his pupils correcting to see Tony. Tony throwing up, a foot away, his body convulsing, gasping with the moment, and the wet flush of liquid from his mouth melts the snow into a Pollock painting of yellow and red. Mostly red.

It takes Bruce far too long to find his tongue. To remember the falling, the pieces of the scattered suit, and the look of devastation across Tony's face as he caught them both.

"No!" Bruce croaks, already beside Tony, a hand snaking along his back. How long has this been happening? How long had Bruce just stared into the void, salivating like a gluttonous beast?

Tony doesn't answer him, probably can't. His singed and torn clothing exposes the goosebumps along the man's skin, his veins pooling to surface, thirsty for oxygen.

"Br—" Tony gags his name, somehow mandating a tone that says don't look at me and help all at once.

"I got you," Bruce says quickly. He twists his hands into Tony's shirt and frantically pulls it off, tossing it shortly aside. He then braces his hands along ribcage, abdomen, skipping over the unsettling looseness of a hard piece of circle metal peeking through a cavern of flesh. Bruce knows he couldn't feel internal hemorrhaging, but he could get a good guess of the damage from swelling alone. He feels Tony's lungs contract and expand between the dry heaving, his heart wild and squirming in his chest, but he doesn't feel any more entry, exit wounds, or excessive lacerations. Only the scent of blood and the struggle marks in the snow tell Bruce the rest of the damage: shock, panic attack, and adrenaline rush—the basic fall out to their usual brushes with death.

And death, it should have been. Probably was planned to be, Bruce decides with a swift, detached logic. This keeps him grounded, crushes the panic within himself with a deep breath of startling realization that they are, in fact, alive and not wrapped around a tree. He turns back to Tony, who has managed to push his body upright, hands shaking around his exposed torso, clammy and shivering.

"Bruc—?" Tony calls again, facing away from the doctor and into the heart of the wind. Still staring at the image of his home, once silver and grey, washed away in swirls of black smoke and white, cold snow. "It's gone."

Bruce hurries to rise. He collects Tony's tattered shirt and as many of the shimmering scales of the iron man suit as he can, limping up and out of the snow, numb from shock and ice. With his hands full, he stumbles back to Tony, packing the pieces as best he can into a shapely pile.

"Is that all of it?" Bruce asks calmly, expecting Tony to easily brush him away, to describe this part of the suit or that, to tell him, Jesus, that was a ride, right? but the man doesn't move.

"It's gone." Tony repeats, his tone dry.

Bruce inches closer, careful not to let his own paranoia of being outside, in the park, possibly noticed by people, to rush his tone. "I'm sorry, Tony. There isn't anything we can do right now. We have to get going. Alright?"

Tony nods, his neck raw and bruised from the reinforced confines from his face mask tilting on impact as they had hit the ice, but he doesn't seem to understand. "But." His mouth shudders the word as his teeth begin to chatter uncontrollably. "But."

Bruce uses the best of his meditation methods to not let the painful act of squatting in the snow get to him. "You're cold, aren't you?" He opens up Tony's shirt to spy the rather large hole at its center, a rusted ring of blood around its edges. He curses, twists to look around, as if expecting an answer to call to him from the snow, but nothing is there. Just rocks and hills and white on white on white. Bruce glances down—long sleeves, fairly stained but not ripped, and weighs the option of what was more noticeable: him walking shirtless through NYC or Tony's bleeding chest light.

The choice is fairly simple. Bruce's forces his hands not to shake as he undresses, the wind already chewing at his back. He wonders when the hypothermia will set in. Was this the work of the Other Guy? Did he always have to be one more bodily defense ahead of Death, in a game of cat and mouse? He folds open his shirt and moves a little close to Tony's wavering form.

"Tony," Bruce urges. "Look at me."

The Avenger turns, his body rocking with the motion, but he stays upright. "Whoa." Tony says brightly, his eyes still cartoony wide. "You have a treasure trail."

Bruce fixes his face to be...understanding. He isn't entirely sure what that is supposed to mean. "Uh. Thanks. I'm going to put this on you, okay?"

Tony pulls away, unbalanced, nearly throwing himself back into the snow, suddenly panicked. "Why? Why? What if I can't breathe?"

Bruce lowers his arms patiently. He knows all too well what it is like to be confused and threatened. Something has gone horribly wrong, he can't help but think again, and it started with Tony's mind.

Tony isn't wrong about his new habit of not being able to breathe. It isn't something that Bruce and he have discussed at length, but Bruce was more or less the resident doctor in a pinch, and he had seen Tony's less glamorous moments before. But Tony's recent panic attacks were regular enough for Bruce to offer brown paper bags, halve Tony's coffee, and initiate other methods that didn't require intravenous use. The last thing Tony needed was another chemical dependency to overindulge in. Whatever use of meditation or deep breathing that Bruce had suggested, Tony merely shrugged away or mocked all together. Still, somehow, Tony could always find more and more excuses to make Bruce stay with him when anxiety flared, and took the form of building the new paragon of environmentally friendly toilets or some other silly, meaningless project that meant Tony be talking to someone, anyone, to stave off being alone.

Pepper's disapproving face enters Bruce's mind like the white scintillating horns of a bull, piercing their quiet arrangement. Pepper wasn't entirely subtle about her discomfort in Tony confiding in the doctor and not her. Bruce had little to offer her back in comfort. The last unspeakable thing he held within himself he couldn't bear to tell Elizabeth until it was far too late. Maybe it was a man thing, Bruce was never sure. Maybe they both just sucked at being good people.

"You know I wouldn't do that to you."

"But what if it happens anyway?"

Bruce shifts a little closer. He offers the shirt again, his teeth starting to smart in his jaw. "I promise. Come on, Tony. Aren't you cold?"

Tony squeezes his eyes shut, an irrational way to push out the chill. He pulls his arms tighter around himself. "I don't—I just don't know."

Bruce can finally reach him. He gently grasps Tony's wrist to move one arm into the sleeve, then the other, easing Tony around to get a better look at the rest of his back.

Through the white powdering the back of Tony's hair, Bruce spies the red frozen puckering of scraped skin, the angry remains from an intense blow to the back of the head. Bruce carefully braces Tony's neck a quick, practiced movement. Holy shit. Bruce feels his reality drop and reform anew, like accidently rolling into Thor during a spar, or in the dark of the hallway and startling the God; a shot of electrify cutting down the balls of your heels, a split second feeling of weightlessness. Bruce shudders, his eyes hurting to stay open in the cold.

He breathes in. He has to move Tony now.

Which is easier than expected, as the scientist lists backwards, following wherever Bruce leads. He also has to keep Tony talking.

"B-better?" Bruce winces, glancing around at the seemingly impossible task before him. They were attacked and there were possibly more coming. Rationally, they needed a hospital but Bruce could only guess at how, beyond his own reasoning, even Thor wouldn't be careless enough point out that whenever attacks this terroristic are against them, the last place they need to be is near more civilians. A hospital couldn't protect them.

And I couldn't protect them from myself, Bruce adds bitterly, throwing Tony's arm across his shoulder to lift him up and out of the snow.

Tony stiffens his legs, half dragged, and lets out a whimper as he stares, deadened, at the snow beneath their feet. "Everything is gone." His voice is thick. "I couldn't...I didn't know."

Bruce hardens the muscles in his back, using most of his own strength to pull them forward. He glances at the remaining pieces of the iron man suit, piled and sickly, just a yard back. He turns away again. With no way to carry the pieces, and Tony this out of it, Bruce can't risk the panic it might cause his friend to attach them back on. He hopes Tony can forgive him to leave behind the invention that saved their lives.

Bruce starts to walk as quickly as he can manage, his head low. They move past park benches, iced over gardens and empty, leafless trees. In the chaos of people coming and going, Bruce spots an abandoned snow-hat, one of those pink, feminine, knitted kind with a string ball decoration on top, laying cross the dark wood of a park beach. Not very sanitary, but Bruce finds he lacks a choice. He didn't think to have his wallet on him in the last few months of being shut up at the Tower, and it was long lost by now. He snags the hat and stops for a minute, bracing Tony with one arm while he slides the man's head into the hat as quickly as possible to lessen the pain. Tony doesn't seem to notice.

With his chest exposed and the wind eating at both of their faces, Bruce forces himself to look onwards, refusing to look down as he begins the near drunken stagger of helping Tony into the heart of the city.

Beyond the pieces of suit, embedded in the snow, the last remaining evidence of the two men's existence are the soft, nearly unnoticeable patterns of droplets gently lining the snow from the hot tears dripping down Tony's face.

Jane. They have to call Jane. That is the plan. Or, at least, was the plan. Not only was Jane half living in the city by accepting Fury's (of no doubt, dirty money, Bruce concluded in his own dark opinion) rather tactful proclamations to maintain a flat in both New Mexico and New York City to be closer within SHIELD's major scientist research platforms, not to mention Thor. Jane was the only person Bruce could think of to help. He would never, ever turn to Fury. And after that strange drug he had been instructed to give to Steve, after what madness that had caused, he could hardly call his own associates for favors. Although he had seen the archer hours before, he wasn't even sure where Clint was now.

Besides, Bruce did know Jane's apartment was Thor's last known location, and Bruce desperately needed him, too.

Bruce didn't bother to announce any of this to Tony. The billionaire seemed to be barely conscious at best and asleep, despite pain and cold, at worst.

But it was a plan.

Navigating a city Bruce hasn't seen in over a decade is extremely disorienting. New York at once is the same and entirely different. All Bruce can reason now is getting somewhere warm, for both their sakes. A place that didn't require the use of a lot of money. Bruce has a bit of luck in discovering of a few quarters between him and Tony's pockets.

"Tony," Bruce gives a small shake to grasp Tony's lagging attention. "I know you're tired but I need your ideas. I don't really know where I am or where I'm going."

With red, straining eyes, Tony looks around the tall icy buildings before them, his face pale, and his gaze unsure.

"Phone?" He offers, his tone slow.

Bruce smothers the reflex to be annoyed. They've had this conversation twice previously. "Sorry Tony. I don't have a cellphone."

"Oh." The response is more breath than word. And that worries Bruce. Keeping a usually chatty person with a concussion talking was a lot harder than he had thought it might be. Sometimes he considered dropping into a store, stopping someone on the street for their cellphone for a just a moment, but Bruce finds himself walking past chance after chance. What few stragglers that walked the streets now, bundled and distant, stray far from them, probably out of concern for their own safety. Bruce doesn't blame them.

Then, the thought hits Bruce. A thought he hadn't considered in a long time. "A payphone!" He says this with a deep elation.

"Ha!" Tony laughs loudly, his head lolling back. Bruce startles slightly, nearly dropping Tony, before correcting himself. Tony grins in amusement, the corners of his eyes somehow containing the large center of his dark pupils as he gives Bruce an impish look. He looks so normal that for half a second Bruce feels a rush of relief. "What decade are you livin' in, pal?"

Oh. Bruce sighs gently. "There has to be one somewhere."

"M," Tony gives what could be a shrug but looks more like a strange dance move to Bruce. "Too big."

The city, Bruce agrees. It is too big. And full of people. Even the people on the street seem alien and unfriendly. Which Bruce is grateful for. No one comes near them, probably thinking them drunk or homeless. Or both. Either way, Bruce works the darkest of his scowls when someone stares at them a bit too long. Between the cold and Tony and his old uncomfortable paranoia about everyone and everything, he is in no mood.

A bus stop slopes up to them, with the bus driving shortly in view. Bruce settles for it, nudging the change from his back pocket. Only looking for the coins does he remind himself that he is, indeed, shirtless in a snow storm.

His jaw locks and he pushes the rush of anger away, the scene already playing out in Bruce's head of the bus driver refusing them service. His knuckles tighten on the hard metal, unknowingly bending the rim with the reflex of his fingers.

God help this bus driver if he isn't amiable enough to allow two down on their luck New Yorkers a warm ride.

The bus slowly inches to a stop, hissing from the fine sleet of watery snow draining from the hot pipes running underneath. The doors swipe open, revealing to the driver the glowering face of an older, shirtless, beat-up looking man holding up another that looks, from the driver's own experience, probably high as a kite.

He shrugs. Looks back over at the handful of other passengers with obvious disinterest. Whatever. It's practically Christmas.

Bruce lays the change into the fee box with a little more force than necessary before he tugs Tony inside with him. He tucks his head low as he manages their way down the row. He feels his face heat up slightly with each new pair of eyes raking his half naked body up and down, like he was something special to be ogling. The last time he had so many pairs of eyes on him, he was locked in a glass chamber, screaming himself senseless, naked as the day he was born into this miserable planet. I fucking hate this, his thoughts hiss slightly, before Bruce lifts his head to meet the judging faces lining the back of the bus. The man in the back corner screws up his face as a flash of uneasy fear causes him to look away.

"Buncha' queers," a woman snorts, clearly too annoyed by the sudden stop, but Bruce plainly ignores her as he focuses on getting Tony into a seat.

As he sits Tony down, Bruce quietly allows himself a minute to grasp at his own shoulders, shuddering and shivering from the shock of the warm air trapped inside. When he's a little less jittery, he turns to Tony, warming up his friend's arms and shoulders as much as he can, regardless of the stares the back of his head meets.

Tony leans slightly into his shoulder, obviously looking for warmth. Bruce himself beyond caring, his usual limit of being touched lagging behind, trapped in a major city on a smelly bus with nothing but the back of his shoulders keep the rest of world away them. People. These same people that he had once helped to save from the world's most insane alien attack. If only they knew. If only they had any idea who they were.

See how grateful they are for your service, Tony? Bruce barely swallows his jaded tone, crushing it down deep within, tracing the pattern outside of slush and frost. Tony moans, twisting away from Bruce, blinking, lifting a hand up to touch the back of his covered head. Bruce catches his hand, easily forcing it down.

"I know it hurts," Bruce adds nervously, "But you shouldn't move much."

Tony nods slightly, or what Bruce prays is a nod. God. This was awful. Bruce felt so out of control. When he usually couldn't do a thing for a patient, say, back in Mauritania, where Bruce would lay awake at night, mirthless with self-loathing, but now, having crawled with Tony from the smothers of hell, he just feels angry.

"Where...?" Tony begins, looking around faintly. Bruce finishes his thought easily.

"Bus. It's not exactly a private limo. But it is warm."

Tony blinks heavily. "...yeah."

He quiets again, his gaze unclear. Bruce swallows and does his best to keep his plan in motion. "Tony. We are heading to get Thor. I'm alright, but you hit your head pretty badly. And I'm worried about your chest. You think you could tell me what hurts, or what doesn't?"

Tony nods a little more. "Can tell." He runs a finger up his neck and winces. "Shit."

Bruce allows a faint smile at Tony's ability to convey so much with one curse. "Basically."

Suddenly, Tony's black eyes jump to Bruce, suddenly frightened. Bruce grasps his shoulder in alarm. "What is it?"

"People—publix—public?" Tony stutters over his own tongue. He gives a pained shake of his head, centering himself. "Watching? They'll see us?"

Ohh. Bruce gets it. Paparazzi. "Think you'll be too noticeable for the bus?"

"Me?" Tony's eyes glitter faintly. He takes in a slow breath, and gives a half attempt at a snide answer. "A blonde wig, pair of Tiffany sunglasses, and a trench coat from the 80s'—I'll be a regular Madonna."

Bruce admits a soundless laugh, just happy to hear Tony rib him. "Great. Perfectly inconspicuous." Bruce drops his voice lowly. "People are staring, though."

"Why?"

Brush shifts uncomfortably. "Well. I'm shirtless for one."

Tony lifts himself slightly, clearly disbelieving. "You're what?"

Bruce gestures at his bare chest, shifting his gaze away. "I really don't want to hear it."

Tony's mouth twists in surprise. "What the hell happened to your shirt?"

Bruce chuckles slightly, endeared by the sheer puzzled look on Tony's face. "Don't worry about it."

Tony scowls deeply, clearly upset at not being told the truth. He crosses his arms, first out of defensive habit, and then out of desire for warmth.

They're quiet for just a moment when Tony goes "You know what'll really make people look away?" Tony eyes Bruce impishly. Bruce almost doesn't bother responding. Almost.

"What's that?"

"Public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable. Particularly homosexual. It's legal now, you know. I mean. Getting married, I mean." Too quick for Bruce to stop him, Tony scrubs his nails along the back of his head, darkening the beanie, pulls back slightly stained fingertips. "Owch. I must'a hit my head super hard."

"You're just now realizing that?" It was going to be a long bus ride.

Tony presses on: "Did we really survive that?" He studies Bruce haphazardly, his face pale and sweating. "Or has Heaven always chalked itself up to be on a New York bus station?" Tony blinks rapidly. Looks at Bruce again. "And if that is true, why the hell are you here?"

Bruce scowls. "Very funny."

"Well. It can't get much worse than this." Bruce sighs. He rubs at his nose, at the powder burns stinging dangerously close to soft, fragile tissue around his eyes.

"I once downloaded a Lumineers song. I had to throw away my whole computer just to be safe."

"What?"

"I'm just saying."

"What does that have to do with anything, Tony?"

"No, no. My point is: we're not kissing?"

"Stop it, Tony." Bruce folds his head into his hands. Concussed or not, Tony was still…pretty much the same brand of antagonizing he always was.

The billionaire drops his head back against the seat. Instantly, Bruce locks his fingers around Tony's wrist, index and pointer fingers ready at his pulse point.

Tony blearily cracks open an eye. "You know, if you wanted to hold hands, Banner," he states bitingly, "all ya had to do was ask."

"I'm checking your heart rate as rationally as I can on a crowded bus, alright? Without a monitor, this is as close as I can get to keeping you alive. And don't fall asleep. You might not wake up."

Tony frowns as he pretends to mull this news over. "Can't say that doesn't sound too bad."

Quiet. Bruce studies the flurry outside, the long shadows of the evening cold and so unreal compared to the chair he was once sitting in. The priceless book he was once falling asleep while reading.

"You know, Tony," Bruce begins, his voice flat and tired. "I'm just trying to not get tangled in more of the loose threads in my life."

Tony coughs when he probably meant to laugh. "Do they even make that much string?"

Bruce sighs. "We're still doing this?"

Tony quickens, jerks ups, his eyes suddenly alert. "Where did they go?"

Bruce's stomach drops, cracks open, and swirls with tension, feeling like a frozen puddle on black ice. Would Tony panic again?

"I don't know." Bruce says softly. "but...Zola..was it? Said something about Steve...I would guess, the suits are whenever Steve is."

"Zola," Tony slurs. "What a stupid name."

Bruce smirks, just a little. "You said it."

"And...where are we going?"

This Bruce can answer. "Jane. Jane Foster's. I recall her address. She moved here months ago and flies back when Thor is, uh, away." Bruce does his best to sum up exactly how far Asgard was is with a general term. Away.

Tony snickers, his grin sloppy, but playful. "You don't keep anything, do you?"

Bruce frowns lightly. "What was that?"

"I mean...you just keep it locked inside your head." Tony explains, leaning his head back on the cracked cushions behind them once more. "No phone, no computer, no address book...That must be...complicated."

Bruce glances at his friend, his expression guarded. "Safer that way." It's the only answer he can really give.

"Ya think Thor already knows? Like a sixth sense?" Tony asks sluggishly. "Like...how animals can sense disasters?"

Bruce raises a brow in consideration. "He's the son of a God in a multi-rainbowed dimension. Not a dog."

"'ortve' like a dog," Tony weakly protests.

"Alright, Tony," Bruce shakes his head, giving in. "kind of like a dog."

"Heh," the sound slides out loosely from Tony's lips as he fades again, his body sliding downwards Bruce quickly grabs at Tony's shoulder, tugging, his other hand still carefully collecting Tony's other wrist, a safety line between Tony's body and the floor.

"Hey, hey, I know, I know the worst thing ever is being awake, but we're nearly there."

With obvious strain, Tony picks himself up again. "Right, right, right." He looks at Bruce woozily. "Sorry," He apologizes meekly with his eyes fixed to the floor, fragile and disoriented.

I hate this, Bruce thinks, his eyes drinking in Tony's haunted expression before, without warning, Tony's face crumbles in alarming pain, his dark eyes wide as he scrambles to get his clasped hand free from Bruce's grasp.

Bruce jumps, immediately letting go, and shoves himself as far as he possibly go along the seats edge, one arm bracing the back of the seat, the other, the hand, the one that was once locked around Tony's wrist, aching from how tightly he's smashed his fingers into the old metal foundation of the underside of the seat.

There is a dark, unmistakable band of black and blue brusies tight around the skin from where Bruce had placed his hand. The discolouration already screaming at the doctor everything he needs to know: broken bone.

Tony doesn't seem to understand how it's happened; he simply doubles over low over his lap, cradling the new pain running up and down his shoulder. He makes no sound, sucking air limply through his gasping mouth, his eyes open as they stare into his knees blankly.

The bus suddenly seems so much smaller than it should, with metal walls that would tear like origami-but Bruce's sputters a breath. He had stopped breathing, his thoughts rapid in his skull, heavy, churning, his eyes wide.

Tony locks his jaw as his eyes jerk to Bruce, pupils impossibly large, dilated unsure, possibly even...scared. He pulls himself unsteady against the window, cold and hurting, with the shine of tears hot behind his eyes.

"Oh God," Bruce chokes. "God, Tony, I-I didn't. I didn't mean it. I." Bruce pumps air down his own throat, swallowing, an attempt to cool that grasping thing scratching at his insides, that blinding white stab of yearning to do it again, and walls his emotions away, locking door after door after door, tight around his heart, just like the monks told him to picture. A thousand locks. A million. A sea that he must pour the keys into, drifting to the bottom, never to found.

He must wrap himself in chains attached at the soul and wait.

Calm. Be calm.

Bruce shifts in his seat, lifts up a hand, and firmly tugs the stop line. With a full on moan of annoyance from the other passengers, the bus stops.

Silently, Bruce reaches out for Tony, so close he could lift him up if he had to, but Tony moves towards him, his eyes glancing around the bus as if he's convinced that there isn't any real escape and Bruce- Bruce will tell him what to do.

The concussion is both a terror and a blanket of ignorance that Bruce doesn't have time to correct. He just keeps breathing. "I'm so sorry, Tony." It's practically a whisper. "I lost control for just one second and..." Bruce leans forward, overly cautious, and helps Tony to his feet. "It won't happen again."

It's more of a promise to himself than to Tony. It's all he has left to offer now.

Looping Tony's arm back around his neck, Bruce wills his sore body to walk once more. Tony dimly moves with him, his face passive, and Bruce desperately hopes Tony is too far gone to feel any more pain.

"Okay, Tony. Last stop."

Bruce keeps talking long after they get off the bus, trying his best to fill the dark silence of what it might mean when Tony finally stops responding to him. Bruce actively avoids looking at the unsettling angle that Tony's wrist falls, blue like the ice beneath them. Bruce is talking more than he's probably talked in years. Racing forward, fingers numb and curled. He knows he's out running more than just Tony's concussion or Zola or even Fury.

Under the full winter moon, Bruce's shadow is never far behind him.

They ring her door only twice before Jane, fixed in her sweat pants and long sleeved black top, opens her door with a pleasant, terse voice of surprise when she sees them: "—Tony?!" Then, her wide eyes to Bruce. It takes her a long, agonizing moment to match his face—they never had met before. Bruce made sure of this; he doesn't meet people. But Jane knows this man is Bruce. It has to be Bruce Banner, standing outside her fucking apartment—a man Thor had told her was so reclusive, it was as if he was only a rumor to really exist outside of—of that Hulk thing—at all—because this man isn't Happy or Rhodey or Sam Wilson or any other man Jane can recall in earnest before her. She throws open the door wider, her heart beating so hard it physically hurts.

Bruce wouldn't show up here for anything less than Tony Stark's death.

With a half conscious man draped over his shoulder, and shirtless himself, Bruce barely manages to look anything near 'okay', or a 'nice to meet you' kind of greeting. He feels his own legs slowly giving out from carrying Tony for what feels like miles in the cold.

"T-thor is here?" Bruce requests desperately.

Instantly, Jane, with her own warm body and her amazing warm house, floods outside and into the night, causing the pair to stumble their way back through the door frame, Jane thankfully making up for what little strength Bruce has left in him.

They get Tony onto her couch, and, without a warning, Bruce watches with a cringing horror as Tony proceeds to vomit once more, mostly bile this time, having spat out most of his swallowed blood throughout their journey. Jane merely watches with acceptance as her grey sofa is, for now, ruined.

With her hands clasped over her throat, Jane spins around, her eyes sharp and terrified: "What happened?!"

Bruce only needs to look at her television screen to gain all he needs to know about her confusion. Jane's screen is tuned into Netflix. They don't know. Bruce grimaces, his own head slightly turning the room around him, his thoughts flaring: I did it, I hurt him, I broke his bones, me, me, me.

Maybe Bruce had somehow talked himself into the fantasy of Zola. Maybe he really did bring Stark Tower to its knees. Maybe—

Jane is in his face, her eyes boring like search lights, "Bruce?!"

Bruce backs away, needing space, demanding it. "We were attacked. Tony hit his head, saving me, uh, Thor here?"

Jane doesn't wait for the full answer, she quickly sprints to her closet for blankets and a bowl. She moves expertly across her floors although her body is trembling with the sudden exposure of having watched Tony, usually so charming in nature, reduced to a shivering ball on her floor.

"Is he—?"

"No," Bruce assures her as best he can. "I'll look at him now. He seems to be okay, uh, just in shock. Which is kind of a miracle."

Muscles protesting, Bruce sinks low onto his knees, peeling back Tony's clothing with a doctor's eye. Tony fights him only faintly before passing out, his good hand tight around Bruce's wrist as the doctor leaned in to check his arc reactor, clearly afraid of anyone touching him. He isn't sure if Tony recognizes him, or Jane, or anyone, with those eyes unfocused and terrified. Bruce's stomach squeezes with guilt.

The damaged reactor was still lodged in there, doing its job of keeping the metal out of Tony's heart, if not weeping a bit with scar tissue and blunt force trauma, blood frozen to pale skin. Bruce sighs feebly in what little relief he can find. He carefully takes Tony's shattered wrist between fingers and studies the damage. The skin shifts evenly but Bruce can feel the swelling already. For the sake of Bruce's sanity, he sighs to know it was a clean, sudden, break. It would heal in time.

But does he know it was you? Bruce's thoughts taunt him. Don't they all know it is always your fault?

Bruce forces himself to speak. "His wrist is broken. Do you have a hand brace anywhere? Or a cloth?"

Jane nods slightly, running to the bathroom before returning with a Wal-green's brace wrapped in cheap plastic. "Does he need it right now?"

"Yes," Bruce distracts himself readying it. "It'll hurt but it needs to be wrapped. He'll do more damage to it in his sleep if we leave it be."

With Jane's help, they lift Tony up just enough place him on Jane's couch, scraping the sickness away with a sheet and his bare nails. He quickly stands to head to the bathroom to wash his hands.

Jane stares at Bruce, perplexed at his calm. "Bruce, oh my God- is—I mean—everything must be—"

"Gone." Bruce answers her flatly. "Yeah." He glances at his hands and bare chest and feels rather disgusted. "could I please use your—?"

"Yeah, yes, of course!" Jane says welcomingly, "Anything you need. Anything at all?"

"A towel?" Bruce asks, his voice drained of certainty.

"A shower?" Jane offers back, her eyes checking him over as carefully as she had Tony.

God, yes, Bruce cries out internally, but he finds his patience. Soon. But Tony needs him now.

"No. I need to watch Tony. But, uh, could I borrow one of Thor's shirts?"

"Sure, sure," and she moves on to the next room.

Her bedroom, just off to the side of the entry wall, is purple and covered in scented candles labeled Bath and Body Works, co. Bruce doesn't recognize the brand. It truly has been too long since he's been in America.

With a white fluffy towel, Bruce scrubs himself thoroughly with the hot water from her sink, his cuts stinging with a sudden, full force, un-numb feeling, pain awakening from the depths of his bones, his shoulders, his calves. Nothing too awful so far, but Bruce wonders if he'll feel it; the unsettling weightlessness in the back of his head, like his skull had been halved and the dark spool of his thoughts were being drawn out in long, endless pulls: consciousness, humanity, and soul re-born… taking new forms, growling and chattering, exposing all of the pain he wants to bring to the world and...water. He doesn't wait for the basin to fill or the water to warm up, just shoving his face, sputtering ice, swallowing the painful slap of the cold water down his throat, until all Bruce can feel is the dull, looming headache, seated on the back on his nerves, testing him. Waiting. Lurking.

The black and blue iron around Tony's wrist flickers before Bruce, and he catches him with a stagger, hand clasped over his mouth to stop from screaming:

Look what you did, Bruce fixes his eyes to the pair in the mirror. Look what you fucking made me do!

Those eyes don't answer him. They never do.

Fuck you. He nearly reaches out to rip the mirror down before remembers where he is. Why? Why did you do it?

He turns the handle to shut the tap off and hits the lights, plunging into darkness. He doesn't want to see himself anymore.

Blindly, he wipes his face dry, resets the muscles in his jaw. Cracks his neck. Flexes his hands, shoving the sound of Tony's bones cracking out of his mind.

He finds the switch again and turns it on.

I know what you want, Bruce calls into the darkness. He braces his arms on either side of the sink, lowering himself, back aching, steeling his fingers over the smooth surface, staring at his own reflection in the mirror, his own eyes alight like a sudden camera flash exposure, knifing the composure out him, potent with temptation. But not yet.

And turns away, flicking the switch off.

Jane is pacing her living room, piling blankets onto Tony's prone form before handing one to Bruce. The news has been flipped on, with a muted reporter running her mouth over everything they know, which is pretty much nothing. Bruce weakly accepts the offer, wrapping the blankets blue fluffyness around his shoulders.

Finally, although it's only been a minute or so, Thor is there, clad only in a towel, standing with a deeply concerned expression, his long hair and golden beard dripping wet.

Bruce stares at him, at first a little muddled, and then in understanding. Jane's flat was pretty large by New York Standards. Just a pretty penny for Fury. She had two bathrooms. One must have been in her back bedroom.

"I give my deepest regrets," Thor's voice rumbles lowly. "I was bathing when this affront took place." His blue eyes look to Bruce with disenchantment. "Have I failed you, good Doctor?"

Bruce manages to solidify his tone. "No, Thor…no." He looks at Tony and away again. If only Thor knew how turned around his question was. "We had no idea it was coming until it was far too late. We think it was meant for Steve."

With a halfhearted glance at Thor's insanely chiseled chest, Bruce resists covering his own. He had walked the storm of New York for the first time in years...shirtless. He never had to really work out like the rest of his team. Just one more embarrassing spot on Bruce's own track record. Jane hands him a dark red V-neck that Bruce slides on with ease, the fabric soft and solid. It runs a little long, practically rolling a more than a few inches past his hips, but Bruce chalks it up once more to trying to literally compare himself to Thor's clothes, the man who didn't entirely understand ties or why scarves were warm.

Thor's cloudy eyes look to Banner in tremendous woe. "The Captain? Are you certain?" the deep timber of his voice seems to reach into the empty spaces in the apartment, heavy with genuine distress.

"We—" Bruce tries, but from the couch, Tony stirs, allowing himself to be guided upright by Jane's hands. Bruce stiffens, his head locked, staring ahead.

"Fuuck." Tony touches his head, the newly exposed wound recently cleaned. He then looks at Thor.

Keeps looking at Thor.

"Excuse me, but were you singing in the shower while my Tower was destroyed?" Tony slowly lets the reality of the situation color his tone.

Thor turns, frowns, and then his lips rise into a wide grin. "I am so pleased to see you alive, my friend!"

Tony winces, setting his head low. "Am I?"

Jane is careful to set an arm around Tony's neck, moving Tony so his braced hand isn't bumped. "Bruce saved your life."

Standing awkwardly away from the three, Bruce rubs at his own neck, uncomfortable. "Thank you, Jane." He mumbles.

Tony looks up at Bruce and waves weakly at him with his good hand from where he is sat, leaning back again as if to fall into the cushions, but decidedly rests on Jane's lap. "Obviously, I got that." Tony says, half annoyed, half impressed. "Bruce knows he's my better half."

He continues on but his voice is muffled by blanket and legs, and soon, his breathing evens out again.

From the couch Jane looks up at Bruce, concerned, but doesn't complain when Bruce gives a single shrug. Her expression softens and she turns to Thor to exchange a knowing glance.

"Doctor," Thor addresses Bruce with powerful nod. "I shall finish dressing, but when I return, I expect a great tale."

Bruce rubs at his face, unsure of where to place himself in an apartment that only had one door to escape out of, with so many people, so compacted in by just a few rooms, but he relents. His brain is entirely fried. The blanket too warm.

Jane has enough grace not to leave Bruce to drown in his own insecurity. "If you want, it would be great to have you sit closer, you know, to watch Tony," She scrambles quickly. Bruce almost feels bad for her. How does one tread with a monster in the room?

But, Bruce finds himself stepping forward without much thought; she did better than most when it came down to being kind to him. He settles in armchair across the way, his entire body knowing now that he has sat down, it would feel like hell to drag himself up again.

Thor returns, a mix between cloth and armor, rather ready to take on the next game plan that Bruce couldn't imagine hatching right now. He turns his attention to Tony, modestly crunching medical facts and compartmentalizing the results: Tony, for the most part, would live. Whether he enjoyed it or not, Bruce would have to wake him every fifteen minutes for the next eighteen hours.

That, he wasn't looking forward to.

"Doctor," Thor declares softly, breaking Bruce from his thoughts. "You look pensive."

Jane glances at Thor, her brows furrowed. "I think he's working out what to do with Tony. But he's gonna be okay, I think." She touches at Tony's side, his body curled against her, out cold. "Right, Bruce?"

Bruce blinks at her, before realizing he's being addressed. His vision seems dimmer than usual. Oh. His glasses. Right. He clears his throat. "Yeah. Yeah, he's tough."

"Do you feel well enough to speak of what happened?" Thor requests gravely. "I am uneasy to hear of these ominous tidings for Captain Rogers as well."

Bruce sits up in his chair and takes in to the eyes watching him. Jane, hazel eyes racing with intelligence, visibly adapting to the situation at hand, even if Bruce had only been formally meeting her, well, right now, in her room, half-naked at her door. He figured it was better than meeting her the other way. And, it was always good to see Thor, who seemed forever stable, refusing for an instant to doubt the good in anyone, often even within Bruce himself, with such a pretense it made Banner curious to what the morals honestly were in back on Asgard to make him so…keen to violence. All things considered, Bruce, for once, doesn't mind being the center of attention. In a twisted way, this was a lot better than listening to the gathered Avengers fight from—could it really only have been days before?

With an exhausted exhale, Bruce finally begins to pull the pieces from the attack as he explains the strange findings of a digital paper clip on a computer screen, a long dead man named Arnim Zola, and the last remaining iron man suit, still buried in the snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EN: AN ALTERNATIVE TITLE WAS CALLED "GAYSCIENCEBROS, OR, HOW BRUCE TRIED TO MAKE EVERYTHING BETTER BUT FAILED MISERABLY"
> 
> also, Tony's story about that Lumineers song, true story. YOU GUYS KNOW WHICH ONE I'M TALKING ABOUTTTTT.
> 
> update again soon, lovelies. This train ain't stopping for noooobody.


	48. December, 1932, Brooklyn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: (fixed for errors, 10/10/16) Never before have I googled so many words in my life and felt like I was WRONG.
> 
> Just, personal insight into my writing process, I guess. A+
> 
> THIS CHAPTER IS PROUDLY PRESENTED BY OUR SPONSORS: heavily detailed accounts of awkward 1930s racial tension research, medical practice theories before WW2, and, my personal favourite, Kaley's terrible music taste that she continues to force upon her readers.
> 
> Alright, alright, alright, it looks like this taken a bit of a trip backwards, but I do hope that it plays off...well. Before we watch Bucky murder twenty-something people in a row, I thought we might explore a little of who he was BEFORE he became a mass murderer….inspired by Not Enough Answers story, "Gravity", which you guys should totally read. Hope I did this okay for ya! Obviously this is more of a passe than my focus on Beth/Steve, because, if you couldn't guess from sheer area and period and awkward discoveries, this isn't a "happy" thing...but it'll make for a damn good story, in my head, anyway…
> 
> These flashback chapters will be intercut between Beth's, but, once again, not a pure focus.
> 
> Lo', it killed me but I actually changed a tiny bit of lore so Steve's dad could be around a while longer. I shouldn't of, I know, but I couldn't help it. HE HAD TO BE HERE TO GIVE STEVE DADDY ISSUES. In fact: most of the Avengers have daddy issues! I'm like the Oprah of daddy issues! "YOU GET A DADDY ISSUES, AND YOU GET A DADDY ISSUES, EVERYONE GETS DADDY ISSUES!"
> 
> Yeah, that about sums up my line of thinking, alright.
> 
> Alternate title: The chapter in which Steve wasn't the only one keeping secrets from his best friend in their teen years…

December, 1932, Brooklyn

Bucky awakes with a jump, sprawled loosely on his back, the skin along his spine crawling like he's been laying in a field of stinging nettles for hours on end. The feeling isn't so much painful as impossibly miserable —a hopefully once in a lifetime experience. Now that he is up, Bucky instantly knows the cause: carpet burn. The kind that digs in with spiny rows of too rough teeth, hidden within the thick, shredded carpet of Steve's bedroom. That's how long he's been sleeping there, letting the entire weight of the damn day sink his body into the hungry, sadistic jaws of poorly installed flooring. The same place it happened to him last time.

He peels himself upright, dragging a hand to rub at the sweat strapped to his back. He can feel the uncomfortable dampness soaking into his undershirt —a usual comfort this time of year —but his arm doesn't move. Neither does his other arm. With a roll of his shoulders, Bucky allows himself to lean backwards onto the plump surface of a wooden bed frame behind him, its solid structure swaddled in layers upon layers of blankets. His shoulder blades pop as he stretches. Buck finds that he's been wrapped in the thickness of a quilt. Murky patterns of ladybugs and daisychains woven by hand peek up at him from the fabric —a blanket that he definitely didn'task for or have near him anytime after he arrived at Steve's house, late that afternoon.

He untangles himself clumsily, struggling quietly this way and that, until he's finally free. He picks up the quilt and twists it in his grasp unconsciously, his muscles tight with the realization that it's been years since someone has taken the time to tuck him in, like he's a baby, like his little sister Jeanie, all muddle mouthed and red puffing cheeks, her annoying toddler whine already circling around in James' brain with an exaggerated "pwwweeeease Jamiee?" that she's learned from a Looney Tooney's short, the mild weight of her tiny frame already ghosting to him, the sharp memory of her accidentally kneeing him in the groin as she slides across him, laid out on the cramped couch at his house, desperate to be alone for five seconds —away from the other three pairs of sibling hands' pushing for his attention —never mom's or dad's — God.

James leans back, tearing himself away from being there. His breathing shallows. Steve is so, so lucky to be an only child.

No wonder he fell asleep in the undisturbed, deep quiet of the bedroom. It's just so obvious that only one person ever comes in and out the door. No one to scream at him or rip a door off the hinges in an all out fight. Just Steve's bedroom, as it was two years ago, five years ago…

The walls are a crisp, light blue with old nails barely doing their job of supporting old, seriously old, pictures of grainy, shadowy, Civil War era portraits, a generational chain of Rogers' through family passings. Steve's bedroom is certainly small, but it has a floaty roominess to it, like it was both a woolly shelter and a self contained world. Maybe that was a little stupid for Bucky to ever say out loud, but it was true. Steve drew, drew constantly, tacting the walls with paper after paper of increasingly life-like ships sails or mountain tops. The more detailed pictures undoubtedly the latest scenery Steve had read in his newest devouring of a book, and bam, Bucky was there. Even if the armoire shifted around spots in the room and the window were suddenly boarded up, it was still the same. Although, the best parts of the room were in the summer, where the window would be left wide open, dripping sunlight across the carpet like the buttery tops of fluffy daffodils. Whatever it was, it had a presence of its own. It made for good housekeeping and for passing the time, because drawing was something simple and easy to do that didn't suck the life out Steve.

There were, of course, more reasons to why Steve's life was never set in stone beyond a few concrete details. Buck got that. Steve's dad had worked the construction of the Empire State building for over five years. He was gone early and came home late. Steve's mom, Sarah, worked shifts as a matron at the sick ward in downtown Brooklyn, but she had been shrinking her schedule smaller and smaller lately as winter approached New York. Winter was never the best time of year for her son. It was why the room was so bare, poor as the entire neighborhood was, but the space was needed for Steve to breathe. Or, at least, that is what the quack doctors mumbled to Steve's parents over the past few weeks of harrowing amounts of vomiting that went from common (for Steve, anyway) to itchy-lunged pneumonia that knocked Steve so hard on his ass he didn't attend school for last half of November.

Bad air. Molding walls. Shoddy flooring. A poor space in the city. Steve needs better than this, those fools would say sympathetically to Sarah, as if her heart wasn't already caving inwards like a soft shelled egg, like space was the only physical remedy that would cure her boy, don't you know money would save your boy, Mrs. Rogers? Why don't you just go to the corner store and get some, Bucky wanted to mock, twist the air, slap the doctor across his fat lip for daring to say such trite things to good people. He'd gotten better at containing his trembling rage over how phoney it all was, but he'd occasionally crack. He trained in the art of keeping his mouth shut when it mattered, often so tightly a pry-bar couldn't get him to squeak, but it didn't stop him from thinking it.

He didn't believe it. Not for a second. But the lust for money was the hay fever of the oncoming year, 1933, where money and the future and Franklin D. Roosevelt would fix the dying American people. Money, like his mom would moan about, blissfully unaware of how lucky she was to not be starving and homeless and have four healthy, obnoxious children, much to Bucky's chagrin.

No one wanted to admit that it was Steve's body that was failing. And nothing, not even money, would change that.

But. Still.

Buck couldn't pride himself too highly.

He didn't want to say it, either.

But the use of space and quiet allowed Buck to drift into happier times. To appreciate what he could, even at the brunt of Steve's illnesses. Like, thank Bruce Cabot there isn't a single drop of booze in Steve's entire house. Bucky doesn't even care if the abstinence staves off from a place of intense, religious mindfulness of the Rogers' family background (prohibitionists before their time, go figure) — sobriety is an overwhelmly potent addiction that Buck's family, particularly his mom, couldn't acknowledge.

Mom. Of course.

So, only one person would giftwrap him in a warm quilt like a puppy for Christmas: Mama Rogers.

Mrs. Sarah Rogers, Bucky senses the reckless urgency his pop would stress upon him daily, his smarmy, flakey smile always trying to gain a foothold to suit his superiors. Be respectful, boy. But there is no need to be anything here. The Barnes had known the Rogers' since James was four, Steve was three, when the human brain barely understood the concept of what best friends are. And Steve's mother is just an extension of that understanding. Being thoughtfully sweet and underhandedly fussing over her children is a passion for Steve's mom. Because, God be damned, that is what she makes him feel like. Like he's her snot-nosed brat, and somehow didn't stumble into the world by sheer, drunken accident. It wasn't always the easiest of feelings James could reconcile with. The feeling of...not being wanted by his own mom, and somehow, at that same time, being so completely loved by someone else's.

If James were to be perfectly honest with himself, in his darkest moments, there really wasn't anyone that would take the time to give a damn. His own mom? What are you, nuts? Not in Buck's suffocating world. Only Steve's mom would have the lingering thought to glance into the cracked door of her sick son's bedroom and think: oh goodness no, James'll be too cold like that! Or some other silly, embarrassing expression she probably spews affectionately to Steve. (Her lil' baby and all that, Bucky would croon straight to Steve sulking face, the smaller teen sticking out his lower lip in a skinny scowl, the pale tissue of his ears alight with pink), with her wheat-light hair soft and swirling to the middle of her back, the muscles in her arms strangely defined for a middle aged woman, left over from the amount of patients she's had to help turn over in bed back at the hospital.

Carefully, using a hand for support along the bed, Bucky stands, drifting his eyes about the room to spy if anything else had changed, but it was just the same as when he first waltzed in, boots slick with melted snow. They were cast off near a small pile of clothing to the side of the room, closer to the window. Buck hoped they'd air out, or something, because his boots had seen the absolute worst of it, stinking to high Heaven and back again. Gaining a quick sniff of the air confirms that nothing like that even came close to happening. He grimaces, thinking about slugging them back on and walking back home in the snow.

"Headin' out?" A voice, rough from sleep, asks. A patch of blond hair ganders out from the pile of at the center of the bed, also struggling to get free from the mountain of blankets pressed upon him. Bucky leads over and easily frees his friend from Mama Rogers' lovingly made trap, knocking the blankets to the carpet without a care.

"Was thinking about it," Bucky tells him, snickering to see the final reveal of Steve's hair, sticking out in every direction. "Didn't think you'd wake up today."

"Uhf," Steve agrees. He reaches up to scratch his face, rubbing already pale skin until it flusters an angry red. Buck is certain to not stare for too long. When he forgets to look away, he starts noticing things, different things, like how skeletal Steve's fingers look, or how he looks, if at all possible, even skinnier than he did a week ago. Two weeks ago.

"You decide to play hooky again, Rogers?" Buck raises a dark brow, urging Steve to match him.

He had stopped by yesterday, too, but Steve barely moved, let alone spoke to him. It made Bucky mad with worry but he hunkered down anyway. He used the excuse to come see Steve to deliver yet another pile of homework that the kid had missed, but he stuck around to make the space between home and school seem that much wider. Buck loved wandering around New York — the automobiles this year had radios in 'em, and Buck could keep pace with an entire programme just by walking between cars and open store doors — but no matter how far he roamed, the city never seemed to be personal enough to make him feel welcomed anywhere. Heck, he was nearly sixteen. Maybe it was just a new form of growth. Strangers on the street didn't seem as friendly as they once were. Those same store managers now looked at Bucky with narrowed, skeptical eyes. He got more "move along, fella", than he did "Good to see you, son," anymore.

Steve rattles, Bucky swears he can literally hear his friend's lungs with every breath, tinny with congestion, in an attempt to chuckle. "Don't even remind me about school. Miss Seroni still nagging about that report?"

"Yeah. It was due yesterday." Bucky reminds gently, "But she said that you could have another week."

Steve stays prone, his blue eyes to the ceiling, the rim of his lids red and watery. James knows better than to think Rogers was actually crying. No matter what those punks at P.S. 114 said. Steve wasn't so easily shaken. No, that honor went to his newest illness once more. His eyes had started popping blood vessels each time he retched his guts out at school, and now, despite their red-color, they seemed to be recovering. Or so he hoped.

It'd been nearly three weeks, and Bucky was starting to get a little tired of this himself. His mind winds backwards to a full moon and sun before, when Steve laid up, so tired he couldn't even talk, and Bucky had to fight himself, snorting with anger, lapsing between a panicing high and an all time low thinly contained within every minute he felt himself wanting to reach across the bed and shake Steve, shake 'em and shake 'em until Steve finally stopped this bullshit! Or. Or, worse, far worse. How badly Bucky wanted to curl into a ball himself, to cry, and maybe just never stop bawling, like the popped tailpipe of a Ford Model B, frustration burning up his brain. Steve couldn't be this sick, for days n' days on end. His whole damn life, he just can't be this way forever. It wasn't just killing him. When was it gonna stop? When was he gonna grow out of it? James could swear he was starting to lose it, too. And that said nothing for the muffled, wall separating rows Buck, on the rarity, heard Steve's parents get into.

Nervous didn't even come close to covering how shitty Bucky felt when he heard Steve's own parents start to lose their nerve.

Steve takes a shaky breath and swallows dryly. Bucky could count Steve's ribs with a sly corner twitch of his eye. "How long you been here, Buck?"

James glances at his cheap wrist watch, flicks the face of it a little. The thing had been broken for years but it was one of the nicer gifts his mom had given to him for a birthday that seemed far too happy to have actually happened. "Two, three hours?"

Steve nods tiredly. "Sorry you waited so long."

Buck shrugs. It's not a big deal. It would pass. It always did. "I fell asleep, actually. I think your mom covered me up." He bends slightly to pick up the quilt again, giving it a little shake for emphasis. "You want it?"

Steve reaches out a hand, the whole length of his arm exposed, scrawny and weak. "Hand it over. It's freezin' in here. Aren't you cold?"

Buck rubs at the sweat along his spine again, but nods anyway. "Sure, heck, it's hailing buckets outside."

Steve turns to look at the window. Bucky could only imagine how long it'd been since Steve had seen the sun. "Is it really?"

"Oh yeah, it's bad news." Buck may be exaggerating, just a little, just to feel like Steve, shivering under a pile of blankets, makes sense, even for a moment. "You, uh, want anything?"

Steve slowly looks back, his eyes to Buck, and then, drifting downward, staring into the blankets. "Dunno. Might just throw it back up. I didn't know it could get so painful just to yack. It's awful." Steve touches at his forehead faintly. Closes his eyes. "I feel awful."

James feel his own stomach tighten. "I bet. 'Bout four days ago your mom wouldn't even let me see you."

Steve's eyes pop open, bewildered. "Really?"

"You don't even remember?"

"I…" Steve loosely scratches at his collarbone. "I don't know, Buck."

"Well, I can. It was bad." Buck quickly changes the topic. "Say, you know your dad's home. You talk to him lately?"

Steve quiets, looking all the more uncomfortable. Steve always looked some foolish manner of uncomfortable, whether to Bucky's amusement or cringing downfall, but Sergeant Rogers is a brand new kind of skin-crawling they don't sell in stores yet. It's almost funny to Bucky that Steve's lack of inability to shoot the breeze with his old man is honestly one of the few things the kid actually had in common with his dad. Small talk is not a Rogers trait. But it almost didn't appear to be a trait in the Barnes family, either. Bucky had no problem just flat out considering literally shooting his own dad.

"Uh. No, I haven't."

"I think the Empire State building finally let him go." Bucky continues, "The say it's the tallest building in the world, Steve. Let's go see it, alright? How about this weekend?"

"Sure Buck," Steve says, but his eyes dampen at the prospect of yet another failed promise, but he seems distracted. "You— you said you were leavin' soon, right?"

Bucky considers Steve. "Yeah. Why?"

"Do you think you could do me a favor?"

"Dunno, Rogers. You're in the red pretty deep with favors from me."

"Come on, Buck, please?"

"Mnn," Bucky hums, his voice sounding deeper and deeper these days, hitting a lower, and more patronizing, tone. "I got places to be, man."

Steve smiles, and this time, he looks healthier. Maybe it's his skinny, peaky face but his eyes look huge, impossibly big, like a Disney cartoon. Almost overwhelming pleading. "Please?"

Bucky groans, pretending to cave in as he places the palm of his hand against the wall for dramatic effect. "Alright, alright, Rogers, jeez Louise, put yer stupid eyeballs back in your head."

A flash of teeth, a quick smirk, and Steve Rogers seems to be getting better by the second. Buck is instantly glad he stuck around. Now, he even has the energy to flicker his hands quickly around the bulk of the bed, feeling for something. He then stops, rattles a papery laugh to himself, and glances at Bucky. "I'm losing it, Buck. I was going to show you what I wanted you to get me, but totally forgot that I'm asking you to go get it."

"You're an air-headed loser. There's your daily reminder from yours truly."

Steve coughs, harder, and Buck can hear it loosening whatever gross stuff must be in his lungs. He knows it is meant to be a real laugh. When Steve speaks again, his voice is rougher. "It's a book at the central library. 'Treasure Island'. Robert Louis Stevenson. I really wanna read it again."

Buck grins in amusement as he studies Steve's room again. That explains the ships. He had thought they were the ships rusting in the harbor, green and leaking, the sun boiling the once shimmering paint to a dull, metal rust. Since the economy crashed, they hadn't moved an inch. They made for a pretty good case study, though, even Bucky's artless hack of a brain could admire.

"Ohh, so these things are supposed to be pirate ships?" Buck taps at a particularly good one, that looks detailed and scaled in, (what the hell did Steve call it again? Something real cheesy, like, pro-active? Perspective? ) but covers it with his hand, just to get a rise out of Steve. "Thought it was a flying cow."

A pillow flies through the air and hits Bucky square in the stomach, causing him to flinch, his eyes screwing up in a weak attempt to protect himself from the assault. When he looks at Steve again, the kid looks proud, his lungs jutting out a little harder from exertion.

"Two for flinching," Steve barbs him.

"Fair," Bucky laments. So he stands a little closer as Steve smacks him again with another one. This time, it doesn't feel like anything with most of Steve's strength used up in a single throw.

"'Treasure Cowland'," Bucky tells Steve. "Got it."

Steve manages an eyeroll, but, within a split second, he's coughing again, the words choking out of him like "can't" "water" "breathe" and Buck quickly backs out and makes for the kitchen.

Bucky stops halfway down the hall, his socks muffling his quiet steps as he approaches the door to the kitchen. More photographs line the wall, each looking a little more tilted as the display goes on. They used to hang pin straight, glossy, well cared for. Buck prods a few in a dim hope of fixing their angles, sliding each back into place. He didn't notice it before, but the distributions of their awkward placement looks forced, like someone had slid their hand roughly along the wall and wanted them to look messed up, maybe even to fall. He's balancing the second to last frame when he hears the distinct voice of Steve's mother, echoing from the kitchen. He freezes, an ear to the wall.

"—so ask for another loan. The auto repair down the street just opened up three weeks ago, and Curtis said that he couldn't sweep the lobby floor an inch before hitting someone's foot."

"That's not how it works, honey. You have..." perhaps even harder to understand, with a low, patient tone, Buck vaguely hears the answer of Steve's father.

"...you don't see what I mean? Are you even listening?" Mama Rogers pitches her voice higher, sharpening, like her words are carving marks along the paint in the walls.

Sergeant Rogers only makes his voice softer. "Now Sarah ...don't get hysterical; I'll ask again if you are this insistent... hear you."

Bucky leans carefully, bracing his back along the wall, feeling suddenly lightheaded.

"...Joseph, you don't...I know this will work. It has too! Mrs. Murphy was just phoning... the other day over this article in the Times. This surgery would take the water out of his lungs. They're implementing it in my own hospital soon. It'll be right here, close to home..."

James allows a long stretch of hot air to rush out from between his teeth, forgetting how to open his mouth properly. So it was true. Steve might as well be drowning in his own skin.

"A surgery? Don't you think how dangerous that'll be for him? Honey, the prep-alone would kill him. I mean, look at this mess: tubes straight down his throat...shaving...his lungs are gonna have to manually pumped the whole..."

"You didn't finish the paper: it was a success. A success, Joseph. God knows it sounds dangerous but it's the one thing we haven't tried yet. What if it works for him? I can't let this pass us by." Her voice is suddenly gone and James has to hold himself harder to the wall to make out the rest: "...not getting better...he's just not.., he wouldn't even wake up...never happened before. I was so frightened. Joseph, our baby is..."

"Sarah." Sergeant Rogers raises his voice loudly. Steve's father was from Ireland, but his accent had assimilated into the American climate rather unnoticeably over the years, but it was during fights like this, fights with his wife, Bucky could always pick out when that Irish brogue would start to thicken his tongue. Sometimes that sing-song way of speaking would tickle Steve's own voice and, while Bucky never really said much about, he secretly wondered if his buddy even knew he sounded just like old man...If he'd be proud of himself for doing so. If that'd make his best friend feel any more deserving of being Joe Rogers' son. "Don't start this again, please." A pause. "He isn't dying. He always gets worst before he gets better."

"Then you go in that bedroom and you look at your son! You tell me if that looks anything like living!" Sarah snaps, causing Bucky to shrink low from the sudden explosion, the bitterness in her voice twists his guts into a tight string ball.

"That busybody woman has filled your mind with ideas of a medical miracle, Sarah. I know my son. He will get through this without any more fuss from some radical doctor that's selling lip service...His lungs will fill up again. You know that. It's just temporary. We'd be spending money for nothing but a..." Bucky strains for the rest but it's too quiet.

A heartbeat builds inside of James' throat, clogging his windpipe. Unlike his parents, the kitchen is silent for a long time, right in the middle of a row. Then, the sound of a chair being shoved back against the tiles.

"...barely stand on his own." Bucky catches a few trickles of words.

"I know..."

"He's in so much pain."

"I know, Sarah, I know."

"...I don't care if it's temporary. He's suffering. He just keeps suffering."

Quiet. Quiet, quiet. Then, crackling through the door frame, Bucky can hear the wrenching sound of Steve's mother, sobbing. Buck can't help but let himself drop to the floor. There isn't any up or down or center of gravity to tell his body where to go, what to do. He just sits there, his eyes blank to the opposite wall.

"Why...why does this keep happening?" Sarah's voice is breathless, shaking as bad as her son's own body, struggling to cling to a few more seconds of air. "What are we doing wrong? Joseph, why? Why? I'd do anything. Anything to make this stop. Please...please reconsider the operation. Please ask..."

"...it's okay, love. It's okay.."

Bucky places his forehead to his knees, blocking out the world. No walls, no family, just two voices delicately swirling back and forth behind his eyes.

"...so scared.."

"...love.."

"My baby, suffering."

"He's strong. You know that, sweetheart."

"Do you think God is trying to tell us something?"

Bucky lifts up his head, his lungs tight. God wasn't just easily brought up in Steve's house.

"God understands exactly what Steve is going through. It's going to be what Steve needs it to be, what God wishes for it to be. Steve won't suffer for much longer. He isn't trying to torture him."

Buck cannot help the low snarl that leaves his lips. So, that's just it, huh? His best friend, starving and suffocating, but God's somehow still there. Wouldn't God be the one willing it? Isn't God that same guy that allowed the Great War to happen, that caused Sergeant Rogers to be half blind in his left eye?

Bucky can't pretend to believe in that horse shit. Maybe it was for other people but not for him. He can't help but only hear the ringing silence when he prays. He keeps himself together well. Goes to church, passively flips through the Bible, but it all feels so forced.

His body feels so heavy as he drags himself up to stand. He bumps the walls as little too loudly and coughs a few times, making himself known to the couple, opening the door.

Mama Rogers catches Becky's eyes first as she uncurls herself from the arms of her husband, fingers already flittering around to worry to light hair back into place, smoothing her dress at the waist. She smiles at James, but her eyes stay tight.

"Hello, Bucky," She greets warmly, causally using James' nickname, soothing the tension drifting between her and Sergeant Rogers. "I didn't realize you were still here. Is everything alright?"

"So far so good," Bucky answers her, already nearing the cabinets for a glass. "Steve's up. Wanted water. Good sign, right?"

Sarah's face seems to soften, the news clearly relaxing her. "Oh yes, yes indeed. That's wonderful to hear."

As he grabs the smooth surface of the cup, James is all too aware of the bee-line pair of dark blue eyes to his back, drilling into his spine like bullets.

"Jim." Sergeant Rogers says firmly. "You've been here an awful lot. Doesn't your daddy ever ask about where you've been?"

No, James thinks, but he turns to respectfully face the older man. "I run a paper route most days after school. A penny a toss. Sometimes it takes longer than usual. Your home, sir, is towards the end of the route."

It's a little unsettling how intense Steve's father could be. The man was the living opposite of Steve. Always drawn up to full height, a rather tall and imposing man with a deliberate way of speaking. What comfort James found in Steve's mother, he found himself over thinking every move he made, everything he said, because Sergeant Rogers just expected that out of him, wordlessly, with occasional head nods to express unconscious approval.

"I see." Is all the reply Bucky gets, making the kid swallow nervously, already second guessing. He fills the cup from the tap and thanks them both before heading back to Steve's room, his stride casual along the kitchen floors and then, extremely fast just to get as much space between his body and his eavesdropping as he possibly could.

The carpet prickles through his socks annoyingly as he steps back through.

"Sorry for taking so long, Steve. Had to piss. Don't worry, I didn't aim for the cup—" Bucky stops, his nose twitching from the smell of sickness in the room.

Steve had turned to lay on his side, skinny arms tight around his abdomen, the sides of his mouth still slick with wetness. "...don't worry 'bout it."

Bucky is quick to react, setting the cup down before approaching Steve. "Holy shit," He lets the swear drop, not from the finding the small pool with bile, but from it's pink, red sheen. He forces his eyes away, keeping his cool. "You want me to—"

Steve shakes his head weakly. "Don't."

Bucky shifts on his heels, unsure. "But—"

Steve lifts himself up, sitting, then standing, a hand braced along the sheets for balance. "Don't." Steve gaps, "Mom will..." another short gasp, "...Dad'll see."

Bucky leans in, an arm out to catch Steve if he falls. "Whatever you say, man. I'm on your side."

Steve lifts up a hand to wipe his mouth and slowly lowers himself to the floor, knees folded under him. Bucky doesn't count the number of vertebrae popping out Steve's back, or how his shoulder blades take up the most of his upper body, wide, bone-hard skeletal wings, like a bat.

Buck helps Steve clean, spotting the stain with from the cap from a jug of beach and covering it discreetly with a blanket.

Finally, Steve gets back to his feet, his eyes cloudy but it's clear he's making the effort to talk to Buck.

"Sorry. I know I'm gross."

"I got three little jerk siblings. They're gross. This ain't nothing."

"Hah," Steve allows a small laugh. "You don't have to get the book. Changed my mind."

Bucky frowns. "Too late, Steve. I'm a one track mind kind of a guy."

Steve sighs, the sound flat. "I'm wasting your time."

Bucky grips his buddy's shoulder, squeezing tight, the closest he can get to pushing Steve around in meek punishment for saying such a crummy thing.

"Hey." Bucky stares at Steve until those blue eyes look at him, ashamed. "I wanna read it, too."

"You do?"

"You bet. Pirates, treasure? Sounds juicy. You don't get it all to yourself."

Steve smiles. "Sword fights, too. No girls, though."

Bucky laughs. "Can't have everything."

"It's close to perfect though."

Bucky slides his hand away and quickly nudges Steve, really, it was a gentle tap, easily tossing the kid back into the bed, in one smooth push. "Yeah, I know I am Rogers, don't flatter me so much."

Steve doesn't lift his head as he lays across the bed, but Bucky knows he's smiling.

The Brooklyn Public Library is a good long walk from the neighborhood, but Bucky lones it anyways, quick walking, trying to out race the chilly wind rattling through the trees.

The building itself is a stone cut suture with huge glass doors rising up and into the sky, eating the packs of cold-fearing patrons with a gluttonous, stylish mouth. James certainly didn't fancy the library often, but he could definitely appreciate its warmth.

Inside he rubs his hands tightly together, stiffening his chills as he prowls the sections, leading first into the wealthy, upper crust college-aid section, then the little kids, then back through the classics, muttering the alphabet song like a grade A clown.

His heart drops as he rounds back through the wings, passing through door after door, his frantic search becoming more and more frantic.

It's not here. The one book Steve requests, and library can't even slouch up a single copy.

James rubs at his temples, already feeling a headache forming. No. No! What was he going to do now? Steve asks him for one damn thing—

"Are you lost, sir?" A feminine voice charges from behind Bucky, the pull of the word 'sir' at the end clearly hostile.

James spins around, his dark eyes wide, as he finds himself nose to nose with a black woman, her face scrunched, her nostrils flaring.

"N— no, ma'am," Bucky jerks in surprise.

James can't look away from her eyes. They're so dark, like a stormy night sky, same as the color of her styled hair, cut decidedly short to her face, finger curls coiled tightly to frame the strong cut of her cheekbones. She's not uncommon from way the girls dress in Brooklyn, and yet, she sure doesn't look like any girl Becky's seen before. She's awfully small, petite even, with straight line angles, boxed out by the lining of her dark blue dress. There's not a hint of softness littering her frame. It doesn't take but a single minute for Bucky to realize that this gal's all thorns, every last inch of her.

She clears her throat loudly, a rude sound, channeling her vexation from deep within. "Sure seems like it, kid." She corrects the heat of her eyes to study the door from which James had stumbled through. "Course, that would explain a lot. I mistook you for a grown man from behind."

"Hey," Bucky protests faintly in an attempt to cover up his own age, his voice sounding hoarse and a little jittery from being yelled at so suddenly. "I'm nearly seventeen."

The woman— a young woman, James discovers as he takes in her stance. Funny she'd peg him for being fifteen when she had to be no more than a year, two tops, older than James himself, about six inches shorter, too, if James subjected her heels from the equation— rolls her eyes over James like she's contemplating squishing a June bug.

"Sure you are, honey," Her lips curling in defiance, offering a strange, pixie-like quality from the prissy way she holds herself, chin flexed upwards to gain a higher ground. There is something else off about her voice, too. James furrows his brows in an attempt place his finger on what it is. Something about the way she milks her vowels, real slow and condescending. She gives an exaggerated swing of her hips, flaring her nose more. "And I'm Mae West."

She turns on her heel and marches on from back the way she came."Get out of here, white boy. Before I have you thrown out."

James can't help but swell his chest out in anger. He didn't mean to cause any trouble or pick a fight in a damn library. What's this dame got to blow a gasket over?

"You and what authority?" Bucky calls back to her, his tone cool.

That got her. She turns back, smoothly, but she struts over with a pick up to her knees, exposing their caps as she walks, like a stalking cat. "I work here." She growls lowly, jutting a finger to point at a square cut name tag that hosts her last name: MISS ALLEN. She crosses her arms over her chest, her chin out yet again. "Are you gonna cause me problems?"

Bucky glances around lamely, his eyes still wide, searching for someone, anyone to meet his look that says can you believe this broad?

"Not at all, not at all. I'm just looking for book."

She snorts, a small puff of air the causes her curls to bounce slightly. "Well, it ain't here."

Bucky gives her an incredulous look. "What do you mean it ain't here? It ain't anywhere else, either! It's why I wondered into this room. There has to be more than one copy of it. This is a public library, for Pete's sake."

She bares her teeth, strikingly white against her dark skin. "This section isn't for you, kid. You can't just mosey on in and expect me just give up my books."

"Oh, my apologies,"Bucky flattens the sarcasm on his tongue, thickening his voice, "I had no idea every single damn book in this lousy room was yours."

The dame stops her foot. She just does it, right there, her hands balled her side. "Are you blind and stupid, white boy?" She thrust out a slender arm to point at the sign just above the door. "This is the colored section! You can't be in here!"

She says the word 'colored' like 'cu-UH-la' and it makes him tilt his head a little in confusion. And that's when it clicks for James. She has an accent. A southern one. And how a sound so awfully cute comes outta such a sassy, mean mouth is a crying shame.

James glances at the sign and back at Miss Allen, feeling sheepish, but he holds his guard up. He can't bring himself to go home to Steve empty handed.

"Miss, this ain't what it looks like. I'm here for a good reason."

"I really don't care. I'm not gonna ask you again."

Bucky feels himself actually start to break into a sweat. He'd never actually gone to the colored part of any store or building before. He just never thought about it. It never struck him to really check. Besides, it was New York, and those Crow laws couldn't fly too far over the Mason-Dixon line. But, it didn't mean they weren't there, either. Even with the New Deal act. Even if there weren't signs that proudly exclaimed "WHITES ONLY". Hell, his own mother was a prime example of how rampant segregation still was, much to Bucky's thinning patience.

He shoves his hands inside of his pockets, scooting his eyes along the floor as he notices that this part of the Brooklyn library did seem more run down than the previous sections. Sections of the carpet had been removed. Chairs were held up with tape in the corner. The spines of the books looked beaten and torn.

She crosses her arms tighter, but her expression dims. "Well?"

"You don't happen to have 'Treasure Island'? Just one extra copy, just lying around?"

Her lips pucker in confusion. "Treasure Island?"

"It's an old book. Boringly ancient. I honestly doubt anyone would even miss it. Just for a day." James glances at her face and away again, nervous. Actually nervous. He blames being in the wrong section. Usually he was the one making the girls feel weak.

"Mhm," Allen stares at him, suspiciously. "You don't look like the reading type."

"I'm really not. It's for a friend."

"A white friend, I'm sure," She purrs, her voice thick with self conviction.

"Would that make a difference for you to give me the book?"

She drags her dark eyes over James again, sizing him up. "No."

"Christ, lady, what's your problem?"

"You. This section is for colored folks, not friend of friends for selfish little boys."

Bucky feels his hands tightening. "It's not a selfish reason. You don't even know him. And you don't know me, either."

"And what would that matter? Go on down to the drug store and buy yourself a copy. It ain't that hard."

"You think if I had money I'd even be in here takin' to you?" Now it was James' turn to rip into her. "Do you just think any white fella that strolls on by you has cash? I don't even have change for the city bus, Miss Allen."

Her glare doesn't lessen, but she turns her head away to check some of the book spines, sliding them around. "Things are rough all over, ain't they?"

Bucky knits his brows. "Look, I'm real sorry for buggin' you. I really am. But I don't have a choice. My buddy has even less of one. I gotta get this book."

Her eyes stray back up, lingering over the sudden vulnerability in James' face, that always seem to be coaxed out of him by women-types. "Whatever do you mean by that? Everyone got a choice."

James swallows. Bats at his pockets again, that anxious feeling rising up like a bucking colt. "He's sick. Real sick."

She leans upwards, eye to eye, her face drawn, but listening. "So? And what about the other sick colored folks that might wanna walk in here and read Stevenson?"

Bucky feels himself losing this fight, one of the few fights he found he couldn't ever win, good as he was with his fists and his charm. What could he say to that? What would Steve ever think if he knew his friend came back having pillaged the colored section of a library just for his sake?

Buck gives it one more try. "I'm not gonna steal it. Please. You gotta believe me. I'm gonna bring it back."

"I've heard that song and dance before." Miss Allen says flatly. "I don't give out my books for anything less than death."

Bucky feels physically slapped, even though her words were air and her tone harmless. It shows across his face, his lips paling, his blue eyes empty. He slips his hands into his pockets protectively, trying to push the images away of Steve still and cold, Mama Rogers sobbing on her knees in the dark of an empty bedroom.

"It ain't like that." Buck forces the words out, but they're scratchy and weak.

Miss Allen sets her dark eyes over James, suddenly curious, as if she's memorizing this look on his face, obviously not hearing his words.

"Your friend," She begins quietly, her voice sticky with guilt, her arm clasping across her waist, holding herself. "He got the kind of sick you don't get better from, don't he?"

Bucky isn't been sure how he's still standing up. He just turns. Turns to walk away from her and this and Jesus why is he even here? He's wasting time— he's gotta get back to Steve. His life is skipping away and Bucky is just standing here, like a bump on a log

A hand holds him back. Allen. She's grasping his arm, leaning with her weight, tugging him over to her. Her hand is warm. What all girls' hands feel like, really, but James feels goosebumps rise under her touch. "Wait, wait."

James just continues to ogle her, dumbstruck.

"Okay." She glances at James and away, choosing her movements wisely. "Okay. I have your book." She keeps her hand pinned to Bucky, like he might take off again, as she pulls him to a section none too far off from where they were standing before.

She uses her free hand to pluck it from the shelf, pushing it into James' chest with a little more force than necessary. "Well, go on. Take it."

"But." Bucky mumbles numbly, still very much aware of her hand still holding onto him. "But this is yours."

"I know," She squeezes the word out painfully, but she doesn't make any attempt to take it back. "Just...take it, take it before I change my mind about you."

So Bucky does, loosely between his fingers.

There is a heartbeat of a moment when Allen suddenly lets go of James, the look on her face slightly frightened, like her brain was just now telling her she was touching a screaming hot skillet, too late to find she had already been burned.

"Uh," She rounds her 'ah', her voice even more honey-like. "You make me a promise?"

"Yeah. 'Course." Bucky says, his voice husky, unable to make much of any sound.

"Tell me your name."

"James. James Buchanan Barnes. I don't like James much though." He trails off slightly, unsure to why he's just gambling his entire identity to her like that. "Jim is fine."

Her dark eyes melt into him, like she's looking straight into his bones. "Irene Allen." She says, her voice low.

"Irene," James holds her name inside of his mouth, his teeth humming slightly, like he's licked an electric outlet. "You, uh, not from around here?"

"I was born in Georgia, but I was raised in South Carolina. Sometimes I travel to New Orleans." James can't help but be fascinated by the way she moves her lips, her voice rich like butter when she says 'I' like 'Ah' and 'New Orleans' like 'Naw' 'rle'ns.".

"Oh." James says, thinking of the miles and miles and miles she's travels from there to now. "I'm from Brooklyn."

She actually smiles, just a tad, her cheeks rounding. "I can tell. I'm not the only one around here with a silly accent."

God, what is happening. Bucky can feel himself heating up, his cheeks burning his stupid face off. Her voice is just so attractive, it's killing him. He just stands there, unsure, all his tricks leaking out of his head. He'd woo a girl, no sweat. Maybe even two at a time, taking his pick of the litter to "accidently" knock hands, hold her fingers tight, and take a stroll to his usual spot, necking with her behind the trees along Central Park, but...wait, what did he do after this moment? What comes after names and birth places? Why is he standing like this? Why are his arms suddenly too awkward to be his own?

Irene bores into him, motioning with a rough frantic gesture to get him out the door.

"You better come back here, boy. You got less than two days. And I never forget the faces of people who cross me, James Buchanan. I don't care what color they are." The way her voice melts vowels together like melted sugar, makes the word 'color' sound sweeter, haughty across her lips. "I will find you."

Then, a loud voice from the back bellows for Irene and she turns, struck, like a caught mouse. "Leave!" She hisses and she actually gives James a full body thrust out the door, tripping Bucky over his boots out the section.

Even after the blocks upon blocks of ice James had stepped through to return to Steve's house, he can still feel the heat of her shove, fingers flat against his back, like a brand new sunburn, shaped like two small, matching hand prints, burning into his spine. He imagines how he might look, moving through the white, snow layered streets, his body exposed for the people watching from the windows, sensing something wrong about him, something twisted, like he's been marked, a red target through his jacket, signaling to the world by a human heartbeat ringing louder than the jingle bells laced across the trolley rolling the streets, but James finds he doesn't care, can't care, there's no time, not with his best friend possibly dying and her giving 'em the book, he couldn't be more grateful...and...

I never forget the faces of people who cross me, Irene Allen had threatened him.

Funny, Bucky smirks to himself, book tight under his arm. I was just thinkin' that same exact thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "A boy like that, who'd kill your brother!  
> Forget that boy and find another,  
> One of your own kind,  
> Stick to your own kind!
> 
> A boy like that will give you sorrow!  
> You'll meet another boy tomorrow...  
> One of your own kind!  
> Stick to your own kind!
> 
> A boy who kills cannot love,  
> A boy who kills has no heart.  
> And he's the boy who gets your love?
> 
> And gets your heart?  
> Very "smart", Maria, very "smart"!
> 
> A boy like that wants one thing only,  
> And when he's done, he'll leave you lonely.
> 
> He'll murder your love;   
> He murdered mine.   
> Just wait and see,  
> Just wait, Maria,  
> Just wait and see! 
> 
> \- 'A Boy Like That', Westside Story


	49. Full Disclosure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: We're pretty much heading back to this fics regularly scheduled programme. Thank you for everyone that is reading and enjoyed. It means so, so much to me.
> 
> SO, HERE WE ARE FOLKS- where the world is turned upside down in this fic and we begin to go FULL-CIRCLE. Which means, VERY SOON: More Beth/Steve, dramas, New York Cityness again, and...Beth dealing and Bucky. Whooooooooooo boy.
> 
> So, let's finish this last league of being out to sea before we head back home for some serious r&r.
> 
> *I apologize for any extra typeos. We just got through a hurricane here in Florida and my editors are busy/without power. c: I'm TRYING TO BE BETTER.

Steve was wrong.

Even as he fights to keep his grip over an Iron Man suit as they plummet.

Even as the howl of the wind deafens him, he can feel the sea rising to meet him.

The suits aren't just trying to tear them apart in the air; they're aiming for the waves below.

They hit the icy water with bone-shattering force.

The fifty metal suits follow after, plunging into the sea with Olympian grace—empty faces permanent, their bodies moving as one.

There is supposed to be a kind of silence to the human brain under the water. Oxygen, gravity, sound, torn away by a peaceful, silent suspension of the senses, but Steve hears each body above him hurling from the sky, shattering into the surface of the sea. With his head full of ice and mouth filled with water, the sound of metal to water so sharp, so cutting, Steve is convinced they're the bullets from a machine gun's fire—maybe the ghostly demons of what those boys in Normandy felt—even as he descends. Natasha's body slipping through his fingers, her body free form, limp, a human current, ripped away from each other beneath the sheets of thundering black waves.

Steve strains as he reaches after her, fingers whisping, clawing into Natasha's hair as they spin, a graceful dance that suffocates the muscles in their neck, their burning lungs, the bursting blood vessels that paint the whites of their eyes as they drift between the will to hold their breaths and the resolve to close their eyes.

It's everything Steve knew death would be like. His fleeting, final moments commanding those HYDRA bombs—the instant blackness of nothing but a cold painless darkness. His legs twist powerfully, but he knows he's diving downwards—the horrifying conclusion reforming and breaking apart with every turn of his body. He doesn't know which way is up anymore. His mind reels under this new unsteady reality—somewhere, somewhere there is that peppering of stars, that heedless moon, playfully tranquil in the sky as it watches her handiwork drown him. He turns to look up—darkness, numb and fathomless as the weight of his body pulls him downwards towards it—his mouth practically opening to scream. The shadows of the ocean are tangible. His fear come to terrible, unimaginable, life: He has to die here. He was meant to die here.

A painful kick causes Steve to list back into unyielding consciousness as his side wakens him to an eruption of pain—and he sees her, Natasha, a moving skull in the darkness of the water as it drapes around her shoulders, her fiery hair drifting hypnotically around the ghostly pale skin taunt to her face—her mouth open, lips a striking blue colour—but her leg has struck Steve hard, turning his body upwards. Steve nearly shrieks at the center point of the pain—the newest and most selfish point on his dying body—she's hit him right where Thor's hammer had taken him down, but it fires Steve's thoughts away from himself because….Natasha…Natasha…

He's not alone in this place anymore.

His vision dances. Time and air, physically and water, bubbles of fractured blue, mauve glinting off of his shield, turning it white and black as it hangs, clinging to his glove. He gags in a lungful of water, uncontrollable as he inhales, swallowing salt and the cold as the ocean's invasive fingers seep down his throat, splintering his lungs but he sees what Natasha had pointed him towards.

Light.

There is light in this place.

In the darkness, there are search lights, the closest Steve's brain can name, as they swirl through the layers of water, circular beams that trickle into Steve's disoriented decline down, forcing an inactive pull to swim towards them—a want, no, a need to reach outwards—a thousand voices into his head, the spinning disk of Steve's fast turning reality forcing every punch he pulls as he climbs towards the growling, hissing surface the ocean guarded by the cyclone of metal bodies—there is a point to his drowning—there was a point to the world ending—there was a point to his mother dying and Bucky falling and he can't die now—he can't, he can't die anymore—he's not alone—he has to find Natasha in the mouth of the ocean, to find Buck in the snow, to find in Fury in his shadowy palace, to find Beth in her prison, to find air.

Those huddling masses of light, painfully white, gorgeously floating above the watery line between sky and water, are echoing to each other, static groans of pressure flooding into the suits. There are no words Steve can articulate to describe the wrath of the sea chewing up their metal skin—some ripping in half, short-circuiting others—the largest is a watery leviathan from Steve's childhood stories, with a giant glowing eye that is aiming for him alone.

Steve closes his eyes, looking away from the most dangerous Iron Man Suit Tony Stark has ever built, and makes a single fist—he wants to hold his breath, but there isn't any more air, Hell, isn't any more thought or reason—there never was with Tony. It was always just one thing; the one singular thing that made their waking lives a nightmare just to be near each other. The struggle to make sense of what it meant that the other man before him was alive—and thrusts his arm back, the slow motion accumulation of every single miserable thought he's ever had about Stark and follows through, right into the wide eye of the Arc Reactor.

For a single heartbeat, Steve hopes Tony is trapped inside.

Shuddering through every stretched muscle inside of his body, Steve feels his fist break.

He can feel the bones sawing down to dust, some even thrust outwards, swarmed and instantly numbed by the water, as small bones tear through flesh as the force of his punch travels layer after layer inside of the hulking frame of the suit. The body of the monster offers a reaction that is almost like a real human—it shudders backwards, head titled in pain, and a greasy, oil-like liquid begins to pour from every crack in the suit. A large hand takes a stab at Steve's shoulder and pulls down—almost as if the sheer bulk of the metal in the suit knows better than to fight Steve Rogers—it shall drown him.

Steve feels the water filling with a strange, foreboding warmth. Redness is flooding his vision from out of his own mouth, one arm through the middle of the suit, as the light from both Arc Reactor and the face mask begin to blink out, part by part. Darkness is coming for Steve, the lights above beginning to fade—it's so much harder to move now that he's connected like one, straight through the heart of Tony's madness, listing the distance he's travel in reverse within seconds.

An ear-splitting screech trills through the depths of the ocean like the call of some long, lost, wounded predator, the only sound that accompanies Steve as the last of his strength gives out…

There are three distinct weaknesses to the Iron Man design, Fury had told Steve not long after the events of New York. Memorize this, Captain Rogers. Keep it on hand at all times. If any one of the Avengers were ever to go rogue, you and I both know it would be Stark. This is your full disclosure.

Although his own thoughts yearn to agree with Fury before the file even hit the table, Steve never opened it. He stared at it, though. Stared often. Perhaps, a little too often for any normal man to think Steve wasn't contemplating burning the contents or worshipping them. But this new century was so new to Steve, and entire new world of opportunity, and still, Steve waited for the Director of SHIELD to tell him what to do, what to feel.

Sure, Steve could walk. He had choices. Fury always made that clear. And yet, Fury was the most direct link to everything Steve knew. A promise of Militarized ranking, easily identified personnel to surround him, a structure of a future that he, Steven Grant Rogers, could help mend. Beyond just familiarity, Fury had him in a two-fold grip: he calculated his own dislike for Tony and fed into Steve's own. A commutative notion that said I trust you, not Stark, which made Steve regard Fury all the more respectfully. Like an officer down the line, he had earned Fury's trust with not just his skill but his own judgement of distinguishing the good men from the trouble makers—the guys that wouldn't, couldn't, stand to take the order without objection and direct defiance. A second of hesitation and bodies would litter the field, a carnage of avoidable collateral damage.

Fury stood across the table, a hand perched, each finger taunt, as he leaned back towards Rogers, waiting for a response.

Steve matched the state of Fury's eye, cool and leveled, but distinctly weary.

Fury always played games of call and response, digging through layers of cadence before finding the choices answer he was looking for. Still, Steve had all but swallowed his reverence, unsure of his move in Fury's latest game of Chess. Would a vehement nod expose too much of his contempt for Stark? What that allowed? Fury put together his squadron for a very incredible purpose. So, what was this file, then? What, exactly, did Fury want Steve to say in that moment? And, if that was true, what could someone like Steve possibly say to a man like Fury, who had all the emotional captivation of a show-house opera? Steve could work well enough with the staff nurses and press and the rest of SHIELDs fathom less handlers, but Fury was the full disclosure. A guiding hand in Steve's too loud, too fast, too bright world; a skeptical and fact-driven figure that quietly turned that same world like a snow globe, shaking the morality of every mission in a sparkly, sloshy mess that Steve couldn't make head or tails of. Fury wanted what was best for the untested state of the modern world. He made the enormously clear. And yet.

Yet, Steve stared back at his commander, unable to speak.

"You are a thoughtful man, Captain Rogers. I'm sure you have questions to why I just gave you a hand written document on dismantling the leading publicly revealed 'super hero' of this decade."

Steve frowns, pulling the folder closer to him, but still refusing to open it. "Sir, my only concern is that of disparity. Why would you go through the effort of a squadron if to take it apart from the inside? Shouldn't there be five more folders, including mine?"

Fury frowns, the motion thickening the solid look of contempt across his features. "Captain, you are aware that this new world is working beyond human warfare. Gods are among us now, as well as the Mutant movement. It is my priority to propose as many methods of safety as I can, not only for SHIELD, but for those immediately involved. You must expect the worst in everyone, Captain Rogers, even your brothers. The human race now has more sides to choose from than its own."

Steve meets Fury's eye steadily. "I can tell you from experience, sir, that people have turned on others that were considered 'less than human' long before we knew of 'gods'. To maintain human dignity is to trust and confide in those like-minded, not prepare an execution for crime not yet committed."

"But we are not dealing with the mare flaws of humanity, Captain. You are not even fully human. Not anymore. There must always be a plan for the ultimate, no-win scenario."

Not anymore? Steve hopes that his shock does not show across his face.

"Director Fury, I am not going to read this document." I've read too many already. "You are well aware for my dislike of the son of Howard Stark but I am not comfortable with the idea of 'full disclosure', as you put it. If my team were to turn against me there wouldn't even be time to put use to this file. Strategy only stays fresh for so long before it is outdated again. And I am not going to spend my time plotting the downfall of my teammates. I would recommend you consider the consequences of a plan set to action if you had no intentions of following it through." Steve stands, pushes the folder away, and measures Fury up to his fullest height. "If it is my place speak frankly, sir, that is simply bad leadership."

Fury's dark eyebrows raise ever so slightly. "You won't accept the order?"

"Yes sir. I will not accept this document into my personal strategies. If Stark wishes to confirm my own folder with you, you may do as he pleases, but I am willing to bet that he won't be as agreeable, either."

"You don't have a folder." The words are tight between Fury's lips. "You have more than proven your commitment to my intuitive. You understand that, don't you, Captain?"

"To the best of my ability, sir. But I have no choice in rejecting this proposal of internal disintegration of the Avengers squadron as I would my Howling Commandos. I do not have to enjoy the company of those I keep, but I must have their faith."

"You have to be careful about such a sentiment, Captain. The wars outside this room are not about personal integrity. Sometimes the wrong thing must be done for the right reasons."

Steve turns to stare out the office window, unsure of how to consider such an idea. "It's an old fashioned value, sir." His own reflection flickers before him, his face haunted, with Fury's dark stare fixed to the back of his head. "Consider adding it to my folder."

We all have to go back to the places we don't want to, Natasha had told Steve one night, so careless and not so distantly ago, where the sleet was still fresh over Stark Tower and Thor's hammer hadn't yet taken a bite out his side. When his blood still wasn't spilled over the snow in Central Park, before he had lost his mind, lost his breath, lost his sanity of being a stranger to a waitress in a café—before Beth's blood would be days away from covering his kitchen walls, and Natasha. . .Natasha was still his friend.

The bloodied water trickles out of Steve's mouth with a cough—he sucks in a breath automatically and finds air. Sweet, clean, absolutely brilliant air—so fast and so much that he all but passes out for a second time with each heaving lung-full—but he's bobbing along the frigid surface of the sea, silent and alone. He slowly looks up into the sky. The giant halo of the moon stares down at him, impassive and uncaring. He takes in the carnage of the flotsam seated in the water around him—carefully navigates the spaces in his tired mind that the bodies around him aren't real men—they never were.

They never could be.

They were just pieces of one. Inklings of everything Tony hoped they would be. Steve reaches out hesitantly, grasping the face mask of one, then another, then another, fighting fatigue and sense to make sure that Stark isn't inside one them, dying in the chill, slaughtered by the sea, but he quickly finds that he is entirely alone here. And if Tony wasn't here, maybe he didn't actually send those suits after him. The razor tipped thought that he wanted Stark to die in the middle of the sea slips into and out of his thoughts, dipping his soul into bitterness.

Truly, he could be just as hypocritical as Fury. Steve allows himself a slow prayer of forgiveness as he is gently tossed from wave to wave. He didn't really want Stark to die… but he didn't have an answer for an alternative, either. If only Natasha could hear him now, could see that he, too, could so easily be moved to giving Fury what he wants…

Natasha.

Without warning, he slips under, a forgotten iron man helmet clenched inside of his good hand, as he swims without a thought into the murk below. Natasha. Natasha still hadn't hit the surface.

He dives, bubbles hissing in a long silver and white trail from his nostrils. He keep his arms out, reaching into the depths. Before he would never go back down here. He hated this place. The center of the ocean was just as alarming as an empty room. A natural scar, an immense reminder of leaving his home behind. He hated this time period and this mess and himself… Isn't that such a funny, small word: before. As if naming the passing of time, of events that Steve wasn't awake for, could make better sense of what has happened. Books loved everything about the before, but in truth, before was far too distant and small to convey everything that has happened in Steve's short life. Before had too many stories left untold, too many unanswered questions—never to be shared. Before was the only thing Steve had grown to understand.

Before Natasha had traded Steve for….The Winder Soldier. For Beth.

Did Natasha truly mean it? Did she truly not know? Was she really protecting him? If that was true, which Natasha was Steve holding close to him now? As they lunged towards the earth with fifty of Tony's suits racing down after them, pulsing air and nauseating gravity between the rhythmic layers of metal and steel and carbonite that Tony poured senseless amounts of hours to protect himself and Ms. Potts with, is that what Natasha meant? The literal reality of pushing away one's greatest fear…or was it actually…for her?

Her past. Was that was she was talking about? Steve had contemplated that night for so long—Now that Natasha herself had taken interest in the narcotics that Bruce had given him never fully understood what that phrase meant for her; he understood perfectly what she was getting at, the unspeakable thing that no one around him was ever going to say: get help—and yet, here Steve was, clawing at the heart of a frozen sea, Natasha's motionless body consuming his thoughts, suddenly undoing everything he had fought to protect—or was it control?—or was it everything and then some—beyond himself—beyond Beth—but reaching outwards towards Natasha as well, the need to feel like someone worth believing in again.

His blue eyes spot the strains of red hairs gliding through the darkness. He easily zeros in on Natasha's form. Her mouth is closed, her body long and graceful as she slowly sinks.

He's saying the phrase before he even touches the cold skin of her arm.

Please, Dear Lord. Don't let me be too late. I'm always too late. Please. Please. She's saved me this time. She told me where to go. She brought me to Beth. She took her away. Please. I need answers. Please. I need her. I need my friend. Give her back.

He rockets to the surface like a shark—no thought, no humanity, just movement—breaking the surface with an auditable pop from the abruptly broken, stolid pane of icy water. He grips her tightly in his arms, twisting the his shield over his back, ignoring the electrifying pulse of his broken hand, and hauls them against the bone-white, rocky shore, so close to their landing site, and yet, had they been attacked here, they would have never survived the landing.

Steve lays Natasha flat and quickly assumes the position to resuscitate her. She shows all signs of the drowned: no eye reaction to light (her green eyes dull), no attempt to breathe (her chest shallow), no pulse.

No pulse. He pushes down. No pulse. He opens her mouth, watches the water drain out with every pump of his arm, hand over broken hand, stabbing himself each time he forces her to breathe. The horrible paleness of her body in the moonlight is the most vulnerable Steve has ever seen her. Truly, here she is really exposed—naked in death. Her lips flaxen, her brows relaxed.

She isn't here. She isn't here. Steve reels, rakes his hand through his soaked hair and hurries. He shoves the ghost of his mother away, the bloodied droplets along her cheek—he knows Natasha isn't done. This couldn't have been it. She couldn't have saved me and let go, he thinks, not after what I said to her, not after what I nearly did, the internal panic hits him so quickly that he nearly crushes her ribs entirely in his first round of urging her heart to beat.

How much time had passed? Has she breathed at all? When she did lose consciousness? Steve looks around himself helplessly, a man marooned, but it was all wrong—women never died first in his old beloved novels, where the hero could not ever be defeated and lost—women don't die this way, they shouldn't die this way—please, don't let her be one more person that dies before I go—don't leave me here, Natasha, don't leave me here. Why? Why can't I go with you?—the tears collect at his eyes as he fights to not start sobbing right there along the ocean strand.

His hand scrabbles quickly over something smooth and face-like in the sand. He turns to spy the eyes of a Stark mask, the helmet he had carried, staring up at him. Glass and steel, rubber alloy, melded to the angles of Stark's face—could it possibly still have something to offer him?—for once, Steve couldn't think of what to do, only what Tony would. What Tony wouldn't do, for everything Stark failed, was give up.

Carefully, Steve slides the mask on—a dreadful, entombed enclosure tight around his face, and he flickers the chip at the base of his neck. Darkness surrounds him, not a single spark to tell him its working. He clicks it again. Again, practically puncturing metal with the force of his fingertips until—

He's blinded by a flash of light, and, running at the most basic of levels, Steve can see the tracing sensors as he wildly looks around—then down—tracing his eyes the way he's seen Stark do a thousand times—harder than it looks, really—until he's gained a vision of Natasha few ever have seen.

Her skeleton glows, white and ethereal in the moonlight—grotesquely beautiful. Natasha has never shy about what she liked, who she liked, what she wanted to do with her figure—the kind of things that made Steve swallowed hard, his face beaming red in those early months of working beside her and listening to her oh-so-casually recount a successful mission of bedding a man and then slitting his throat, but now Steve can see all of her—the holograms of her organs, her flat-lined heart-rate, her brain waves…brain waves. They're faint—probably shutting down—but it means—to Steve it means—

His large hands over take her chest again as he stares into the world that Tony must live his life inside of: charts rising up his throat, graphs racing across his temple, mathematics encircling Steve's every blink, every twitch—how terribly mundane, Steve thinks briefly, with every push, every time he breathes into Natasha's lungs, expanding her chest, praying—that Steve thought he understood an inch of what it might be like to be so smart. He hated admitting that he wasn't exactly the more adept at schematics and machinery—he got basic stuff, like cars—although he could understand the innards of a motorcycle even better—but Tony—Tony sincerely was, could be, already was, offering the world and humanity so much more than Steve ever could.

That was the painful, God given truth. Tony could save Natasha's life. Tony and his mind and his money and his will to be better could save a million lives.

Could Steve not save one?

Would you let me? Steve thinks, sweat dripping from the sides of his face, dribbling down his throat, pattering across Natasha's stomach. He thinks he's asking God, but he's really asking Natasha, the words rushing out of his mouth like a whisper between CPR. Please, please, let me—Natasha—let me—I'm so sorry!

Suddenly, Natasha shudders, her head lifting briefly when Steve finally gives a final, painful crush of her chest, and she practically vomits into his mouth as she jerks awake. Unprepared, Steve does his best to cough out the returned water—mainly water and ice and sand—towards any place than isn't on her. She gasps as she rocks on her hands and knees, dragging her lungs around inside of her body as she sputters. Her hair collects around her face, twisting and limp. Steve carefully pushes her hair out of her eyes, smoothing it along her head, making sure Natasha sucking in air doesn't mean getting a mouthful of hair. Blindly, Natasha crashes into Steve's side, scrambling to speak but the words don't come.

Her green eyes stay wide and unblinking as she stares, firstly at the soldier, then at the ocean.

Steve carefully cups the back of her head, somewhere between wanting to squeeze the ever living life out of her and terrified that he's somehow unwanted in her carefully, constantly presented and ever present personal space.

She's battered—the charts that suddenly open up, blinking red, gold, orange, inside of Steve's enclosed peripheral make him feel nauseously overwhelmed—but that is what Steve figures from every chart he checks. She's bruised and freaking out—but undoubtedly alive. No internal bleeding. No bullet wounds. Just alive.

Alive.

Natasha stares at him wordlessly, her eyes huge, glowing like the moon above them.

"Steve," Her voice rattles hoarsely. "I can see the bones popping out of your arm."

Steve glances down, following the line of her eyes, and sternly agrees. He's too numb to feel all the things he is sure his nerves will eventually be telling him. He leans back on his left arm, taking in a few centering breaths. He's seen worse. He's been through worse.

We all have to go back to the places we don't want to, he thinks, regarding Natasha, her breathing, the scarlet ribbons of wet hair snug to her cheeks. And he did. They did. To Hell and back again. God. God. 

"Yeah. You okay?"

Natasha looks down at herself, her fingers jittery, her heart still vying inside of her to believe that she is, in fact, absolutely alive. "I think so."

Steve looks her over a second time. "Tony's head piece says you are."

Natasha studies the mask. Her lips are firm, but they're a little healthier in color. Steve's checking her over so thoroughly that he is startled when the mask is suddenly pulled off of his head. The sound and sudden exposure to the wind along the shore sends a shiver down his spine.

"That…looks so weird on you." Natasha's voice sounds far more normal this way.

"It feels weird on me," Steve returns, his voice warming up. "I couldn't think of anything else to do. I didn't think I'd ever say this about Tony's equipment, but I needed it."

With the helmet clutched between her shaking fists, Natasha stares deep into the shell of its eyes. "They…aren't coming?"

Steve stares out into the wide expanse of the sea. From this distance, it's almost as if nothing had happened. "I think…uh…whatever happened to Tony's suits…most of them weren't prepared for deep ocean diving. A lot of them cracked under the pressure."

"Иисус." Natasha murmurs. The skin of her fingers takes on a hot white burn from how tightly she's pushing on the metal. "I…I didn't know."

"I know you didn't know." Steve tells her gently. "That's okay. You're alive. I couldn't care less right now about much else."

Natasha's hair is already beginning to dry in the wind, coating the sides of her face in a fizzy wave of silver coated fire. "You saved my life." Steve turns to find her piercing green eyes striking him fully, so, so exposed. They're red-rimmed. She's crying. "You saved my life."

Steve isn't sure what to say. He never did when people said that to him.

But good Lord, he believes her now. "You saved mine."

Her eyes widen, heady, spinning with the news. "What?"

Steve confesses so easily—God it's so easy to finally say: "In the water…I was going under. I wasn't going to make it." Steve moves to sit beside her, and finds how calm he feels to slip his good arm around her shoulders, softly pulling her into his chest. "You saved mine."

Natasha shakes her head. "How?" Her voice tightens. "I remember…I remember the force of the water practically killing me…"

Steve furrows his brows, his heart skipping at Natasha's recollection. She was tough, sure. She was powerful and could kill a man in a thousand different ways. But she wasn't a super soldier. It's no wonder the fall took so much from her. She's shivering beneath him, unable to fight it. He knows that feeling too well.

"You'll laugh." Steve finally admits.

Her voice is hard in disbelief. "Try me."

"You kicked me so hard I spat up blood. But it got my attention."

Natasha's eyes narrow as she considers this. She leans into Steve more, and allows one arm to wrap around his waist in return. "Okay…that I believe."

Steve stiffens a short smile. "Natasha." He makes sure he collects her full attention before going on. "I am so sorry. About before. About…now." Steve lowers his voice, the timbre falling short of a whisper. "About Beth. I believe you. I believe you just wanted to protect me."

Natasha tightens her arm, a one-way hug, and slides away, done with all the affection. "If we're exchanging apologies, Steve, I'd prefer to be a little be warmer." She stands using the bridge of Steve's shoulder to hold herself up. Another shudder runs through her as she stares out into the main land. Into the snow. "But I'll tell you everything I know. Now that the plane is gone. Now that SHIELD isn't listening. I'll tell you."

Steve stands as well, hooking the eye socket of the mask and shield onto the holster along his back. "I don't need your sins, Natasha. I just need your trust. You have mine, now. We're figure it out in time."

Natasha's red hair unfurls around her face as she turns to meet Steve's solemn gaze, and she actually gives him a half-curled smile, her lips reddening in the frost. She looks like she's admiring the soldier, like any other innocent girl might from the side-lines, like the dames that threw flowers at Steve and his Commandos for just showing up to their town.

Just like one person might admire in another, two lonely souls on a frozen German beach.

"Sins," her voice hums the word playfully. She even sticks out her tongue, just a little at him, although Steve ignores how white it looks. "You're so melodramatic, Rogers. I'm nothing without those."

They head towards the mountain, looming in the distance. The goal is the HYDRA base. It had to be the place those suits were heading. It had to have a means of commination, and warmth, and non-salt water. From what Natasha can gain from the weak signal of the trigger—The Hulk Panic Device—they're not too far off. Even if Steve was out an arm and Natasha was exhausted. They'd get in. They'd find help. Or Beth, more likely.

"Or we'll die in the snow," Natasha declares off-handedly, tossing her voice briefly around as they hatch a plan.

They don't speak much more. Speaking costs energy and internal heat. Their suits were meant for snow covered areas, the internal, zip pockets water-proofed, but they weren't meant to be soaked through and through, the cloth parts, anyway, latching onto the freezing cold. Steve cranes his eyes to check barren after barren field, the back of his neck-prickling with the feeling of hearing a train whistle, occasionally causing him to look upwards towards the mountain. But there's never a train, not even a set of tracks, or black smoke. The only way he knows it's not real is because Natasha never reacts when the long, low moan from the mountains blows chillingly through the air, calling to Steve, staggering his every breath.

He attempts to faintly move around the bone inside of his damaged arm, popping the bone back inside the skin with a sickening twist. He focuses on that whenever that train starts rattlin' through the back of his head. There are larger, more pressing injuries to worry about than possible hallucinations. Like real ones. Like painful ones.

Steve keeps in mind everything he had learned from his conversation with Logan. A door. People in masks. This place. His past.

It was here. It was more than just a feeling, deep and ravenous in his stomach.

Natasha's confession seemed to make sense, the further they walked, each step that they took.

The Winter Soldier was here, too. The same place Bucky died. The same place The Wolverine had told Steve that he was alive. Alive. Alive and an unprecedented miracle, like how Natasha was walking beside him, breathing in the raw, excruciating billows of air that ripped at their throats and dried their eyes.

Alive…Beth had to be alive. Steve took the time on their journey to trace over every detail Sam had read out to him. No body. Just blood.

Just blood…

Steve stopped.

He quickly grabbed at Natasha's arm, halting her with a skid in the patchy, earthen snow beneath them.

The snow was red before them. Splotchy and light, near pink in some places, but the dark, dirty patterns of shoe-prints littered the area. Natasha raised up her guard instantly, prowling just off to the edge of Steve's field of vision, hesitant. The higher they were going up, the harder it was becoming to see. However, that was where the bloodied trail was leading them.

Silently, Natasha is behind Steve, undoing the knot that held the Iron Man mask into place as she pulls it over her own head, staring into the distance. When Steve moved forward, hiking up the incline at the roots of the mountain, Natasha was the one to pull him aside. It was true—the bloody prints seemed to come from all areas of the mountains. From the rate of it, and the fact that it hadn't already been covered in fresh snow-fall, Natasha was certain that whatever had happened, it was recent. The sight felt all more familiar to the spy. When she gripped Steve's arm to stop him, she still hadn't let go. She'd see red snow like this before, practically days ago, where Steve had collapsed, his body cold and his eyes unseeing. She merely cinched her fingers tighter around him.

Using her free hand, she placed a slender finger to the mouth of the Iron Man mask and, strangely enough, pointed off in the distance, backwards almost, where the red smears in the snow started to trail off. Steve followed her carefully, picking his knees up as the snow sinks under them.

They hiked back down, attempting to keep the breathlessness out of their voices. Steve curbing his frustration in Natasha's apparent need to walk them in circles starting to cause him to doubt that they weren't wasting time.

Natasha takes a knee in the snow, and, as if an artist revealing a painting, shuffled the snow until the red glinted silver and black under the night sky. Steve felt his eyes widen despite the bite of the wind. Without a moment to lose, he helps cleanse the rest of the snow that had covered the scene. They work quickly and recklessly, shoving snow out of the way until they stand, near center, in a layer of bloodied shoes and hand prints, pieces of uncovered snow-gear that had sprawled out in every direction. While Steve studied the main picture the scene painted—fear, the need to flee, desperation, escape, even into the death of the snow—Natasha continued this way, until, without warning—she snapped a tight, surprised curse as her hand came into contact with a metal bar, yelping, pulling her hand away as if it the ice on the handle had burned her.

A door, Steve realized instantly, and, without hesitation, he helped Natasha pull the heavy sheeted entry-way until it landed before them in the snow, coiled from its hinges at anxious Steve's urgency to see inside.

They were met with darkness. A cool, purple laced shadows that only allowed a brief passing glimpse into the corridor before them. Natasha pulls off the helmet with a flourish, as if expecting the company of a gun to the face.

It would seem that the Avengers pairing had come just a little too late. A gift wrapped scene of the whole account of the HYDRA hallway, echoing chamber into yet deeper chamber, welcomed the two into a fortress of harsh, metal walls, partly melting snow and silence.

They had braced for an attack—forty men at least—and yet an unnerving stillness had collected before them.

Steve squints his eyes as he drops below—forcing Natasha to follow since he never stated his forward examination of the hall clearly. His eyes can make out their pacing better than Natasha's, but even Steve struggles to tell her exactly what is before them. Just walls, he thinks. Doors when he runs into them.

Strangely enough, one of the first things Steve states is how much it reminds him of what the Triskelion looks like. Smooth, clean, modern walls. Long, clear-cut turns. Simple patterns of pale white, tessellating checkers of grey tile flooring. Occasionally the blazing red of the HYDRA symbol along the doors, those eight legs curling outwards like a blown open chest cavity to Steve's recollection of old HYDRA operations. No pictures, no windows into other offices, just bare doors and ceilings that echo deep into the cavern of the mountain. The only part the two agree on is that the building is warm. The bitter, deep-seated chill that had caused Natasha to spasm in the cold was sloughing off of her the deeper they walked.

Feeling along the walls, Natasha is the one to hit the light as they move. The hall flickers briefly, ghosting a rusty yellow shine until it adjusts to its true off-white hue.

When Natasha pulls back her hand, there is blood over the tips of her fingers. Steve follows the hollowing discovery by the deep, angry indents along the walls. Human bodies thrown, blood along the floor, under their boots. Two crumbled bodies, one dressed in a white lab coat, the other, the only other option of what Steve figures is the modern day HYDRA agent uniform—black with red lines along the collar and legs—lie prone, face turned to the side. Natasha moves quickly to them, her face tight and cold, before she pulls back, glancing to Steve with a single look that says it all: blunt force trauma. Quick death. Whatever happened here, happened from the inside out.

Something that could still be here, killing people. A force that wanted to take down HYDRA? Friend? Foe? Steve didn't have time to decide. Dead men don't talk. They needed someone—anyone here—alive. And if Beth was here—trapped with this—Steve steels himself—reading Natasha's face with a pang of undeniable conclusion, an understanding that these deaths are from—perhaps even that ghost story, The Winter Soldier.

Exchanging a quick look, the spy and soldier split ways, covering more ground as they begin to run the length of the building, throwing open every door, smashing through anything locked—survivors. There had to be some. Scared and locked away—people that had information, for them, for Fury perhaps, and more importantly, lives—maybe they had been kidnapped like Beth, or held prisoner like Logan suggested. Maybe they were just more HYDRA scientist that never held a gun. Steve was desperate to find someone in the gore. Someone still breathing. He ignored images that flicked along the outskirts of his mind—young boys curled up in shock, their hands attempting to shovel their innards back into their abdomens, the scent of death coming off of the freshly murdered—blood and iron along the walls from grenades going off, left and right, chasing after him—No, Steve blinks, forces himself to exist here, under the mountain. Between door after door, there aren't as many bodies as Steve expected. There aren't many signs of struggle, either, as brutal as the few deaths are. Snapped necks are the main cause. A few blows to the back of the head that caused the victims to internally bleed to death.

He reached as far as he could go, the back end of the building—no one breathing.

No Beth, either.

All and all, there are only about eleven dead, their skin cool to Steve's touch, but not entirely cold. Which mean, just maybe, Steve was edging closer to the point of entry. Which room did this begin from? What was it? From the way he found powerful, bodily forced dents in the walls. Cracks in the door. Smashed through lights. No guns. Not a single shell. So…not force of a team of men, then. Just a few, highly trained. SHIELD, somehow? Already here? Did Fury get the call back that the plane had been scrambled and somehow, for some reason, Tony's suits were here and…and…?

Steve didn't know what rest of that story. And he didn't find a single soul alive to ask.

The way Steve saw Natasha's face upon returning to their separation point made Steve's heart sick with unease. She hadn't found Beth either—but three more bodies down the south corridor. A medial lab. An entirely abandoned cafeteria kitchen.

"Most of the offices I entered looked entirely destroyed. I've taken what papers I thought might help us, but," Natasha looks at a lost herself, her green eyes perturbed. "It's like…I don't know…those footprints we found outside…they actively abandoned this place in a mad rush to get out. They were horrified. I think…I think the bodies we found were the ones that decided to stay behind to burn the rest of the place down. They…failed, obviously."

Natasha turns decidedly, this way, then that, a look of strange familiarity in her eyes.

Steve tracks her movements anxiously. "What?"

"This place. Haven't you noticed? Its design is so similar to the hangars within SHIELD. I just...didn't expect for them to be nearly identical. It's just weird. I feel like…I know how to navigate this place, Steve. For instance, down that hall? It's the aircraft hangar, that door is acceptance and new arrivals...trivial officers and computer labs...SHIELD isn't exactly the leading team on interior design but I didn't think I'd seeing it repeated here."

"You think it's yet another Fury related 'compartmentalization'?"

Natasha gives a sharp shrug, a turn of her heel. "This way. We haven't gone this way."

Steve follows her, the blood thick in his ears, a quiet roar that steadily grows as his thoughts rush. Is it good or bad that he hadn't found Beth yet? With so many dead, the building seemed to only expand in its emptiness, overwhelmingly large as it was. Where was she? Was she okay? God, was she okay? Did she have any idea what was going on? Did she know?

Does she know who I am?

"Rogers?" Natasha calls back.

"Yeah?" He catches up effortlessly.

"How's your, uh, hand?"

Steve glances down—the skin tight and blue, but the exit points of his shredded bones had already healed over. It's certainly not healed, that much he can feel, but it at the very least isn't external. "The bone isn't peeking out anymore, if you 'oughta know."

"Good." Her voice takes on a cold formality. "Because you may need to carry someone."

His heart leaps, smashing into the roof of his mouth, instantly he sprints ahead—only to nearly trip over a large group of bodies. Dead men, all of them, with twisted arms, broken legs—mouths that had been practically ripped off. Steve stills, pales, breathes heavily through his nose as he recollects the damage. Beyond the men, Steve can't help but count their position—the way the fell in line as their formation was slice through—by that same force the caused this whole place to panic?— and, the most damaging of all, their guns.

Steve manages a breath in, studying the door—a huge, intemperately locked system of key pads, ID cards, physical locks—thrusted outwards, concaved. The corridor had ended in a strikingly different way than the more official parts of the building. The wall was made out of a haunting, heavy looking metal. Almost…Steve frown upon closer inspection. Is that Adamantium?

These men were ordered to keep whatever had gotten out, inside that room. Locked under this forgotten mountain. Now, this was their fate.

Natasha steps over the men without hesitation, walking practically over their bodies, her shoulders squared as she moves straight ahead. "Inside, Rogers. Can't you see her?"

Her? Steve sweats, eyes darting between the men before him and bounding to see—God please, don't be hurt—don't be hurt Beth, please…

The room inside is cold and plated. Medical. It reminds Steve faintly of the old army registrars offices stationed throughout Brooklyn. The air, stagnant outside, is distinctly cold once he enters. File cabinets line the halls. They, too, are collapsed, as if a struggle had taken the room to pieces. Files littered the floor. The single metal platform in the center of the room bent at a corner. To the side, Steve takes in the horrifying view of some sort of chair. It has straps to hold down a body, forced to sit within it. Off to its side, computer monitors…health charts…a large tube that sends chills down the soldier's spine just to look at it. The body of the chamber is strikingly similar to the contraption he was laid into when he was first injected with the Super Soldier Serum. Minus the giant needles that punctured into his chest.

Off to the side, tossed along the floor, is the body of a woman. Natasha is already bending over her, taking her pulse. Steve feels his blood running cold. His mouth dry.

When Natasha turns to tell him that she is alive, her eyes confirm his fear. This woman isn't Beth.

She isn't here.

His knees feel weak, the weight of the plane, the ocean, Natasha's near death, suddenly catching up to him. Steve closes his eyes faintly, a moment to let the room swirl a bit in both self-anger and relentless relief…he didn't find her here...which means she escaped, perhaps…which means she isn't dead…she isn't dead, she can't be dead…

He makes his way towards the body on the floor, using his left hand to slide her onto her back while Natasha supports the woman's head. Steve takes in her dark hair, the coat twisted around her hips, her dark sweater. A scientist, no doubt. Maybe even a medical doctor. Knowing both of his teammates as Steve does, this woman could easily be both. The woman is far older than most of the bodies he and Natasha have discovered, however. Forties the very least, if not later into her life. She's certainly not scarred or pock-marked by her age. The silver in her hair starts only at her roots, twinkling in the static hum of the overhead light. Steve licks his lips quietly, trying to find the words to ask.

The doctor beats him to it.

"Is it finally over…?" The woman faintly opens her eyes, squeezing them shut against the lights above. "…Am I dead?"

Carefully, Natasha holds the woman's neck, allowing her a bit of movement. "Can you move?"

The woman makes no attempt to move, her spine straight, and her face merely lapping to one side. Steve slides his hands under her, holding in a quick breathless inhale of pain as he uses his shattered hand, lifting her slightly from the floor. When she makes no sudden attempt to get away, Steve is quick to release her once more. His hands come away covered in blood.

Steve takes in Natasha's paling, frustrated irk, the redness of her hair accenting the flare in her eyes. Shot. The woman has been shot in the back.

"Is there anyone else…" the woman whispers, her voice brittle.

"No ma'am," Steve tells her ruefully. "So far, I've only found you."

"Me...?" She gasps. Her face whitens as she takes in the realization all at once. "No."

"Ma'am?" Steve keeps calm. He glances around the room for anything they could use to stop the bleeding. Natasha is quick to find what Steve is looking for, just across the way, a tiny cabinet of medical supplies. This place is well-stocked for, what Steve could only surmise, is a prison. Almost as if once locked inside, you couldn't leave…

Pain flickers across the woman's face. The distance in her eyes hangs there. "Richard…" She breathes a name. Steve faintly glances at Natasha for support but her eyes reveal nothing. Just a name, like any other.

"Ma'am, can you tell me what has happened here? I am not going to harm you." Steve quickly turns to gather Natasha's expression—tight, acute, but listening. "This is my partner, Natasha. We're here to help you."

Natasha returns quickly, her hands unlacing themselves with needles, thread, gauzing, a familiar ration for a field surgeon.

"It would appear that those that were not attacked did manage to escape." Natasha informs the woman quickly. "We found footprints, tracks in the snow, all across the in-land. There are people that have escaped. What we need to know is what has happened? What caused this?"

The woman blinks her eyes open for a heartbeat, weakly attempting to stare at Natasha, but she says nothing.

Steve feels his teeth tightening in his jaw, dreading to speak the question that he had so long thought was buried alongside him. "You're a member of HYDRA, are you not?"

"HYDRA…" The woman flashes her eyes to Steve. Her eyes are a deep, shockingly dark blue, like the depth of the sea, swallowing him. There was something lurking behind her gaze, drifting away from his face. She had eyes Steve could drown in. Not like Beth's, light and soft, or even Bucky's—restless, pragmatic. "….I was…"

"Rogers, keep her talking," Natasha orders, needle between her teeth. "Can you lift her a little?" Steve does as commanded, wordlessly lifting the woman off of the floor with a calculated, weighted move. He's not new to this, the strength of his arms, the last support of a make shift gurney. With a practiced motion, Natasha is careful to begin stitching the wound. From what Steve can make out, the bullet entered into her upper shoulder—the blood loss is great, though.

"Ma'am, I am not going to hurt you. Can you talk to me a bit? What is your name?" He wishes he could grasp her hand, a feeble attempt at reassurance, but if she is all they have left, he may not get a second chance. HYDRA has been hidden to years. He can't let this one slip away.

That seems to bring her back. Her eyes widen, just for an instant—Steve feels his heart thudding hard against his ribs. It's a look he had always feared from the old men around him—but from this woman, laying in his arms, half-dead?

"Don't I know you…Captain…"

Steve steels his arms, an involuntary reaction to do as he is told. Otherwise, he would have dropped her. The hairs on his arm rise. "Ma'am?"

Natasha works like a machine, nearly done with the stitching. "Keep going," She urges faintly, her eyes trained to the woman's back .

"Yes…" The woman studies Steve's face with a soft, languid gaze. "You are handsome, aren't you?"

Steve swallows nervously. He's feared those exact words before. The way this woman is looking at him. It's absolutely haunting. Like she actually has seen him before, like an old friend, here to see her just before she passes. Steve doesn't understand. He wouldn't know this woman from any other. And she's older, yes, but still far too young to actually be from his past.

"My—my name is Steve Rogers, ma'am. I'm in command of the SHIELD conducted Avengers Squadron. What is your name?"

"Elizabeth Ross," But it isn't the woman that answers. Steve snaps his head to look at Natasha, a little stunned. Natasha seems caught off-guard by the surprise in Steve's eyes. "Her—her name tag."

Steve darts his eyes down over the woman's chest but she isn't wearing one. He glances back for clarification, but Natasha is already back into saving the woman's life. He tests the name.

"Miss Ross?" The woman isn't looking at him anymore, simply towards the ceiling. But her eyes look aware enough. "Miss Ross?" Steve tries again, urging his voice. "Elizabeth?"

Her dark eyes snap back—oh yes, she's very much here with him, for this moment, Steve feels like he's the one being pinned. Steve scrambles through his thoughts, his mixed questions. "Ma'am, do you have any idea what has happened here? What happened to those men outside?"

"She kept talking about you…for her…" Elizabeth says slowly. "Hah…" she turns her head away again. "And I laughed at her. Poor, fragile girl."

Steve stills. He breathing stops. Elizabeth's eyes bore into him, equally calm.

"You…Beth?" He nearly rips the woman from the floor had Natasha not forced Elizabeth's body down, her eyes flashing in warning: control yourself Rogers.

"Yes," Elizabeth begins softly. "…the Ore girl…I'm not wrong…yet…here you are." Elizabeth swallows roughly, a slight cough gripping her lungs. "I tried, you know."

"What?" Steve resists the overwhelming desire he has to start screaming at her, dragging her up off the floor, getting into her face, demanding her answers. Beth was here. Beth was here. And she was alive.

Faster. Faster, that voice whispers deep within him, we're losing so much time.

"Don't worry, Captain Rogers." Elizabeth Ross explains breathlessly. "I tried to save your little civilian, but I can't promise she will be safe from what happens next."

"—Those men outside?" Steve demands, his fingers tightening, the bone nearly breaking back through soft skin.

"James…he will protect her."

Steve's mind crackles—the room too small, the air too hot. "What? I—I want to wait on asking her more questions, Natasha—she—she's delirious."

Natasha's green eyes are startlingly livid. She crafting a make shift blood-bag, hooking a spare IV into Ross's hand as she turns to Rogers. "No, Steve. Get what you can now. Don't back out." She twists the IV a little too harshly, causing the woman, Elizabeth, to curl in pain.

Steve turns back, lungs filling with the swirling air around him. He lowers Elizabeth back the floor. This earns a look of relief from Elizabeth, weak along her pale face. She closes her eyes once more, contented. Without a word, Steve pinches the IV between his fingers, his body shaking, trying to control himself. "Don't get too comfortable."

Elizabeth opens her eyes faintly, not bothering to look at him. "You don't believe me. No one ever believed me."

"Why did you say that name? Who is James?"

Slowly, Elizabeth pools those dark blue eyes, sinking them into Steve, washing over him. "James Buchanan Barnes...born March the tenth, nineteen seventeen…"

Steve flinches away from the conviction in her tone. Jesus Christ. This woman…what was this woman saying? His eyes shrink to Natasha's but the spy has nothing to say. She merely stares back down at the woman. The dark haired woman is relentless, spiting the words at the two.

"Left me alive...recognized his mother…"

Steve shakes his head in pure disbelief—but when he looks towards Natasha again, the spy looks all the more distressed. Steve keeps his voice low. "Natasha…did you find something, back there?"

Natasha lowers her eyes. She wipes her bloodied hands along her black pants and turns, reaching into her back pockets. "I…I didn't know where to begin. I…I was going to show you later…But… you should see this."

She hands Steve photos. Black and white photographs. Each one, with Bucky staring back at him. It has to be Buck. His hair—that same cheap hair cut he complained about back from here to Moscow in 1945…Buck…

The world falls away as Steve notices the date over the next photo. They're practically identical except for the date. The date on the second photo says 1946.

Steve shifts through the photos, fingers clumsy and shaking. Slowly, the photographs are turning into color as he files through the small collection. Just about fifteen photos in all. Each photo shows Bucky—his Bucky—How? How could it possibly be—? seated alone…metal cabinets placed behind him…that chair, the computer screen changing in technology…his hair…growing long…but someone has written dates over the corners of the rest of the pictures. Celebration of Christmas, 1955, 1957, 1961, birthdays… 1976, 1977, 1980…

"What…are these?" Steve can't recognize his own voice.

"It looks like you're not the only photo collector around here." Natasha replies.

"This is…" Steve finds his voice falling away, curling within his chest, numb and hard. There aren't any words for what these photos represent. Steve forces his conclusion between firm lips, the disgust clear in his tone. "She was some sort of…care taker, for him. And he was…" Steve twists the photos between the tendons of his hands. Bucky's arm. His best friend's arm—it's horrifyingly robotic. Some kind of metal. Some kind of red star at the shoulder. HYDRA. "Some kind of experiment."

"The Winter Soldier," Natasha tells him quietly.

"Don't…hurt those…" Elizabeth is reaching for him, barely pulling at his hands. "Don't…"

Steve nearly tosses the photos at his feet—wants to tear them to pieces in front of her—what role did this woman have in the caging of Beth and the resurrection of his best friend from the dead? So she wasn't insane. Wasn't just delusional from blood loss. She was so, frighteningly real…and so convinced she had done the right thing…

As if reading his thoughts, Elizabeth gives a small mirthless smirk at Rogers. "You want to hurt, me, don't you?"

Steve breathes harshly through his nose. He doesn't answer. He can't bring himself to speak.

"Do it." Elizabeth demands, lifting her head faintly from the floor. "So, your friend has saved my life—well done! But what comes next? Don't you need more information? Do it."

Natasha is quick shut Elizabeth down. "I will happily hurt you, Doctor."

"No," Elizabeth clenches her teeth, a weak attempt to snarl at the spy. "He should do the one to do it." She glares at Steve, faintly holding herself from the floor with the last of her strength. "Do not hide behind the niceties of not killing me because I am a woman and I am, therefore, weak. Do not pretend for a moment that your mercy is something valuable to me. I tortured your friend for over a decade and I would do it again in a heartbeat. James Buchanan may have once been yours— but that boy was mine."

Steve turns away from her, sickened.

This only vexes Elizabeth further. "Well, Captain Rogers? Or will your own sexism eat you alive?"

Natasha growls again from her spot along the floor. "I don't repeat myself."

"James Barnes had a mother," Steve tells her icily. "And she was nothing like you."

Steve pushes himself away from Ross, her words, the spinning of the silver room.

Elizabeth lays her head down slowly, a slight sigh of defeat escaping her lips. "You may be a hero, Captain Rogers, but you have not saved me from anything."

Natasha stands from her spot, careful to step over Elizabeth in a show of putting any type of distance between herself and the pitiful creature along the floor. She carefully puts a hand over Steve's shoulder, waiting. Waiting.

But Steve just stares, a void of blue, at the room around him.

"So, she'll live but…" Natasha begins, her voice a whisper. "We take prisoners now?" No response again. She gives Steve's shoulder a little shake. "Steve?"

Steve stares at the empty metal table and sighs. "I was just thinking about how… when I was real sick, back when I was a kid...Buck would just sit by my bedside and wait. Make up all kinds of excuses just to come and see me every day..." Steve closes his eyes, the acid boiling in his stomach. The taste of failure. The taste of losing Bucky all over again. "I just can't help but think if...if he was all alone here...for twenty years...when he fell, I was so convinced he was gone. I could have looked. I should have tried harder."

Natasha is quiet, glancing back to make sure Elizabeth hasn't move, before she returns to Steve. "Rogers. You try harder than anyone I've met in my entire life. You didn't know what was happening here. No one did."

Steve lowers his eyes. "I knew my life was bizarre, improbable even. But I was asleep that entire time. Was Bucky awake that whole time?" Steve feels his voice crack. "Alone, Natasha… for fifty years?"

Only because Steve isn't looking at her, does Natasha allow the pain to flash across her face before she replaces it with another mask—but it never fits her quite right. It's too disquiet. She knows the second Rogers looks at her, he'll know—how could she begin to explain that she knew what she didn't know? She knew James…and yet, she didn't know this is what he had become.

"Natasha, does he think I abandoned him?" Steve continues, a hand raised to brace the side of his head, as if he can feel his mind pouring out of him, leaking through teeth, ears, eyes. "And God, Beth! Beth! What does she think of me now? What could she possibly see? And—and this is just everything, Natasha, God damn everything!" Steve forces himself forward and smashes a fist, cracking the tubing of the chamber. Natasha doesn't comment when Steve's blow forces the bones to shirk out of his hand once more. He doesn't seem to care. "Everything I feared since I took my first breath 'outta the ice, everything, Natasha! It's all happening."

Never, Bruce had told him. You'll never stop running. How could it possibly be so long ago that Banner had told Steve not to hide?

What had he done?

"Steve…" Natasha begins, but the words don't follow. This was just like talking Rogers down from that edge in Beth's bedroom. All she can do is watch.

Steve takes a breath. Turns back to the woman. He carefully lifts her from the floor and makes his way out of the room. The photographs forgotten. The tube, the chair, the entire mountain. Steve hopes it stays buried. Forever. Forever if that is what it takes for this place to disappear into oblivion. After SHIELD checks it out, because of course they will. After the place is as cold and as empty as Steve had once felt…

Let the whole damn ocean devour it all.

"We go back, then." Steve says deliberately. "To New York. We take the woman back with us. She'll be safer with us and I have a feeling that she'll be able to answer more of my questions, then. With more blood in her. Food, warmth."

"And what about the trigger? That alarm?"

"You didn't find it?"

"No," Natasha says, her expression guarded. "There wasn't any frequency detected within the Iron Man helmet, either. It ended shortly after I found the door. Maybe the signal has moved? We wouldn't be able to tell until we re-establish contact with SHIELD, maybe even Stark. He knew about it. Well, he knew what the trigger was for, anyway. He always refused to carry one."

Natasha guides them along the hallway towards the air craft hangar, easily manning one of the more relatively unadorned looking planes. The hangar is huge and nearly empty. It would seem the rest of the planes were abandoned, beyond whatever ones must have escaped. The hatch door is still open, a giant mouth frozen in the frosty wind. Their voices echo back and forth as they check for fuel and left over supplies. To calm Elizabeth's labored breathing, they wrap her in several of the heated blankets stripped from the bunkers and place her in the back seated area of the plane, keeping her heavily sedated.

Inside the plane's lockers they find more of exactly what Logan had once described to Steve. Hard, black masks. Guns. Liquids that probably were linked to exactly what they pumped into Buck for years and years…maybe even what Fury had sent Bruce to give to him. Natasha and Steve are careful to collect the artifacts for their evidence, snuck into a pocket, a sock. For Natasha's theory. Steve's now growing paranoia. They couldn't escape Fury entirely, but they could bring his misdeeds to undeniable light. Steve would be more than delighted to hand a vial full of the 'pain medication' for Banner to test and compare.

Reaching out, Steve trails his fingers delicately over the container barrels, filled to the top with fleshy, thick bags of the drug. The coarse, alien, yet beautiful Russian instructions are far beyond Steve's recognition. He wonders passively if perhaps Natasha might tell him what the writing says, but, with a dark, crippling squeeze to his heart, Steve instantly decides against it.

God, Buck. Of all the times I talked to you in my head. What kind of a world did I leave you in?

Natasha hits the auto pilot as she turns to study Steve's face, his motionless expression as he stares straight ahead, out over the ocean, the colours gradually slipping into the early morning. She doesn't even need to ask any exact question. She just lets Rogers ultimately come in to his own time for when he wants to speak. A rise of her eyebrow does help a little, though.

Steve glances at her, a little unnerved, until he relaxes at Natasha's intrigue. Finally, he gives her a moment into his memory.

"Buck was…" Steve licks his lips, deciding his words carefully. "Always the more emotional of the two of us." He smiles, just a little. "He'll deny it till his dying breath, but, it was true. Sure, I wasn't entirely hard-boiled myself, but I knew how to control it." Steve flashes his blue eyes up at Natasha and then away. "I think Buck felt too much, too fully. He never knew how to escape it."

"So…you're saying, if he's still out there. If he recovers…he'll come back to you."

Steve kits his brows, his eyes narrowing coldly. "I don't know." His gaze shifts down, into his lap, his arms coiled tightly, shivering against the grey skin of his uniform, helpless. He barely moves his broken arm without a round of full-out, agonizing, throbbing of a you-punched-through-the-entire-body-of-a-giant-iron-suit-you-damn-idiot kind of pain. The bodies crawling through his mind. "I just know that Buck isn't a killing machine. He isn't some weapon."

Natasha winces uncomfortably. She can't do this anymore. She nearly cracked in that isolated torture chamber. She understands torture all too well herself. She could still see him—the assassin that she was sent to kill and yet—in the last of her awaken moments, a faint drawl of his voice, the air thick with smoke around her, the way he kissed—something desperate and reckless, like each time their lips met was each and every last time. He knew he was disappearing, even at an unconscious level.

"Rogers…there was time…before Fury…I met with him. Your Bucky. Sort of." Natasha turns, her green eyes impenetrable, her voice low and candid before him. "I think he's still in there. But that was…decades ago. I don't know what's left of him now. That doubles for Ore, if that woman is telling us the truth. And, I don't know if you'd like to hear this, but I do believe her."

"You were always good at knocking the liars. Lord knows I couldn't get around you."

That earns an indulgent smile from Natasha, her eyes only glancingly kinder. "You're better at reading people than you think." She then stops entirely, placing a hand on Steve's good arm, fingers weighted. "You believed me, once, and saved my life."

"I know that. But what kind of a man am I if I can't save the people I love?"

"Love, Rogers?" Natasha raises an eyebrow, the most playful thing they've said in the past 48 hours together. "Didn't know you felt so strongly about me…or were you thinking of someone else? Let me guess…Stark?"

Steve reddens faintly, his face sincere. He reaches faintly into his zipper of his jacket, somewhere between his cellphone, his notepad, a spare bullet—as he touches Beth's paper shield.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Thanks for reading everyone. Lemme know what you think?
> 
> Beth and Bucky are next. Muhahahahaha.


	50. Blue Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AN: You know what's exhausting? Sometimes, everything I guess. Mostly, just constantly writing action set pieces. Like, how do the Marvel writers DO it? I mean, I blew up Stark Tower. I had The Winter Soldier bash Beth's brain into a wall. I had Bruce break Tony's arm and Steve punch straight through Heartbreaker. Before that, half way punch Tony in the face, bleed out in the snow…. Like…I'll be real with you guys, there's reason why this fic had so, so many chapters of straight domestic chapters. That's the stuff I like. The conversation and the emotions behind the glitz and gore. Maybe that's slow and stupid to a lot of folks. Maybe that makes other people restless, but not me, I wanna peel it all back layer by layer, make you squirm with it. So, I'm so proud and happy to announce that this fic is gaining a bit more of that back into its life. Mainly for its author, but, seriously, I was so thrilled writing this part. Like, ever since I opened the plot to the Winter Soldier I instantly knew it was going to be this way. Perhaps it's not entirely perfect, but honestly, don't care, so exciting, so delighted.
> 
> WELCOME BACK INTO MY LIFE DOMESTIC CASE STUDIESSsSSSSSsssssssssssssssssyeah.

Chapter 50: Blue Christmas

**AN:**  You know what's exhausting? Sometimes, everything I guess. Mostly, just constantly writing action set pieces. Like, how do the Marvel writers DO it? I mean, I blew up Stark Tower. I had The Winter Soldier bash Beth's brain into a wall. I had Bruce break Tony's arm and Steve punch straight through Heartbreaker. Before that, half way punch Tony in the face, bleed out in the snow…. Like…I'll be real with you guys, there's reason why this fic had so, so many chapters of straight domestic chapters. That's the stuff I like. The conversation and the emotions behind the glitz and gore. Maybe that's slow and stupid to a lot of folks. Maybe that makes other people restless, but not me, I wanna peel it all back layer by layer, make you squirm with it. So, I'm so proud and happy to announce that this fic is gaining a bit more of that back into its life. Mainly for its author, but, seriously, I was so thrilled writing this part. Like, ever since I opened the plot to the Winter Soldier I instantly knew it was going to be this way. Perhaps it's not entirely perfect, but honestly, don't care, so exciting, so delighted.

WELCOME BACK INTO MY LIFE DOMESTIC CASE STUDIESSsSSSSSsssssssssssssssssyeah.

* * *

Beth awakens in the hotel room with a gasp, clawing the ghostly hands of black armor-clad soldiers with little resistance, only stopping when her arm splinters her brain back into reality.

She jerks up, one arm clutching the other.

Beth breathes. Takes in the room. Four walls. Adjacent bathroom. One bed, the one she's laying on. Wallpaper an orange creamsicle colour. Carpet a light beige. Door to leave this room, bolted. Double bolted. A hand flies to touch her face. No bandages. No tube. No handcuffs. No Ross.

They escaped.

Beth lets out a half yelp, half sob, throwing herself back down against the pillows behind her. She's not  _there_  anymore.

It's over. The mountain, the sea, the flight back. She hardly remembers the blur of it all. People screaming. The hot, fiery burn of her lungs as she ran, desperate to keep up with the force ahead of her. She just, somehow, keep going...kept pushing...forcing herself to stay awake, stay aware. With the dark strength of The Soldier glancing at her, waiting to her orders...her order to run. Her order to escape. Her order to steal the first damn plane she saw. Order to pilot them back to New York, flocking into the dawn of the morning, setting the plane down in some shoddy riverside shore line before walking, blindly, back into the closest hint of business Beth could find. She was so tired, she didn't care. Her arm felt like it was breaking all over again and she couldn't feel it. She just wanted it to be over. And—that man, her once killer, assassin— _whatever_ —tight to her side, relentless in his walk, his trained eye to duck and lead. He never spoke. Beth had only heard him speak a few times. Once, before her head met Steve's kitchen wall. And, the other: the pact between them of call and reply, but beyond that, James let his actions do the talking for him. When she ordered the cheapest room at the hotel lobby that morning, her brain wasn't even thinking about the reality of it all—like money—calling her mother—finding Ronda—going home.

Home was too far. She wanted shelter  _now_.

Beth can't remember if she said that out loud, or how The Soldier reacted to it, or if the bellboy was tipped.

Yet...here they were.

Here. They. Were.

They...

_James_.

Instantly, she sits up, frantically gawking around the room but he isn't here. Oh no. No. No. No. Ross told her the worst would happen if she lost him. Where was he?! He could be out hurting other people, people just like her,  _oh God_ —her feet hit the carpet, staggering to the door when she hits a solid body with her foot, bashing her toes into a cold, metal wall.

" _Shit!"_  Beth swore, hopping delicately on one foot as she cradled the other, listing backwards until she fell, sprawled thinly across the carpet, a few feet away from the very person she was certain was long gone.

James Barnes laid perfectly still, arms crossed under him, pillowing his head, his breathing deep and steady. Beth crawled slowly backwards on her hands, ignoring the crunch of her elbow and fingers, gaining as much distance as she could from him.

If her nailing him in the side didn't do much, she could only hope that he wouldn't wake up anytime soon.

She drops again, head to the carpet. She took in the room, the window, mindlessly taking in the view. They were in a not so friendly side of New York. It must been dark outside, with the rapping of the snow barely hitting the frosted over pane. But if it was night, which night? Night when? Night like how this morning was morning? Had she been asleep the whole day?

She groans, dragging herself up.

One thing at time, she found herself thinking, her thoughts still slow and her own body heavy. Bathroom. Bathrooms were familiar. And it was; she was almost shocked to see how  _normal_  it looked. How could anything be normal after HYDRA? Just…how? Beth felt stupid marveling at petty things, like how warm running water felt under her fingers, splashing her face. She checked the medicine cabinet for anything to use, finding much to her delight, a full, unopened bottle of aspirin. She pulls two onto her hand and chases it with water from the bathroom sink. Hopefully, that could clear her head.

It was like...this night was so close to how she felt the morning after the New York Attack...yet she didn't feel trapped. She just felt...alive.

She reaches for the hand towel, fluffy as all hell, and presses her face into it, letting the carbonated, delicious giddiness ride over her.

She was alive and she still had a mom and a life and was relatively unharmed. Sort've.

She looks at herself in the mirror.

She pressed lightly over her skin, her cheeks, her ears. The strange, strange sensation of her head feeling lighter, freed from the usual weight of her long hair. She had to be honest with herself though: it wasn't a good look. Clearly the pixie cut was meant for other people, let alone her mental patient ass. She tugs a little on the straight strands, careful not to touch the back of her head, or neck. She looks at herself, blue eyes huge and round, and  _laughs_. She looks so, so ridiculous. She wonders if actresses ever dared to cut their hair quite this sort—it's like Natalie Portman's style with absolutely  _none_ of being Natalie Portman. Would the soldier—James—even think twice about how she looks? Would Steve? Oh God, what will Ronda say?! She laughs so hard and for so long she doesn't even sure why she's doing it—she snorts, pressing the towel over her mouth, biting into it.

_Oh yeah,_  Beth thinks, mouth full of towel, easing her chortling.  _That was normal._

Taking a deep breath, she steps out of the bathroom, padding quietly on her bare feet to the bed once more. She eyes the phone. Eyes the television. Eyes the clock radio.

What...what day was it, anyway?

The thing was a busted mess. Half the buttons didn't work and it didn't tell the time or date. But the channels did work. She put on the first music channel she thought of, heedless of what it was actually playing. She just wanted to hear music.

_Okay. Let's have some normal thoughts. What do normal people think about? Music? Okay, music.  
_  
 _…Music._  She frowns.

She waited. Waited for the relief of zoning out to take over as she waited for the subway or cab. Waited.

Until a movement caught her eye. Beth tensed, curling tightly. She kept her eyes open.

James. The Soldier. He is awake. He pulls his head off the floor dully, his long dark hair stuck to his face. His own blue eyes meet the blonde's in a moment of absolute stalemate.

Beth forces every breath, trying not to shake.

Ross told her. Ross told her he wouldn't hurt her if he responded correctly to those words…

But what would he do...when he stopped being controlled?

Ross never told her how to make him snap out of it. Did it just happen over time?

Damn Ross. Damn her to a miserable, cold, bitchy hell, crafted just for her.

They stare.

Stare.

Stare.

Until, without warning, the soldier's expression turns...quizzical. He looks around in a haze, and briefly Beth wonders if he feels, if at all possible, just as bewildered as she did when she first woke up. Beth feels the panic bubble over her once more, but she turns, cranks the radio higher.

She has no idea what to say in a situation like this. Her eyes flicker back to radio, keenly aware of exactly where James is curious to see. Of course. The most basic of all music stations. The radio had defaulted to jazz.

Beth gives a quiet clear of her throat. "Uh. You want me to turn it up?"

From the floor, James focuses in on her again, his lethargic facial expression exposing the raw nerves of, what Beth figures, his overwhelmed brain. Didn't Ross talk to her about something like that?

His lips open a moment, then closed, eyes scanning the room. Beth tries again. Talking was  _always_ better than silence.

"Do you..." She struggles to find the words. To make this...easier. Nothing really does. "Like the radio? You know, I think it's busted. I can only find a few stations."

He blinks at her, his expression yielding slightly away from tired, looking more aware with his fixed stare to Beth's face.

"You…you were listening to jazz, once." Beth continues, faintly, steeled to her chair, like he's a gator on the floor, or that the floor is made of lava. Childhood games played with her friends, her brother, and there James is,  _metal fucking arm_  and all.

James only stares at her more. Then away again.

Beth swallows drily. "You...like jazz?"

This time, change. James raises his eyes to her again, his brows furrowed, as if he is actually considering answering.

Beth waits.

Until.

It's clear.

He won't.

"I mean, I can't say it's something I listen to on my own time, but it's really pretty. I guess I just get...I don't know...bored? I like a lot of my music to have lyrics. It's…a new age thing, I guess. The harbinger of death to classical, I'm told."

Continued staring.

"I'm...gonna go ahead and say you do." She nearly smirks, the sudden memory of Steve, struggling to understand Elvis, now being uncannily funny. Beyond funny. _I am such an idiot._

Jazz just might be the only thing this young man before Beth recognizes. She nearly giggles as the sheer absurdity of the idea.

"…And I thought it was weird Steve didn't know Elvis." Beth declares thoughtfully. James twitches at this. His face actually moving. She swore she could see the slightest, barest rise of an eyebrow. Beth would take what she could get. "I guess that means you don't know him, either. God, this is so weird. "

Beth jiggles the radio knob just a bit. "I bet I could find him." she pulls through a few stations, until, like clockwork, she finds Elvis singing the common Christmas carol "Silver bells". She allows The King's cool, slippery, and definitely aged voice to fill the spaces in the room. Beth jumps her eyes to  _James._  (She kept forcing his name. Keeping him more human kept her calmer. Regardless of his entire metal arm. Regardless that the last time she heard jazz music he was baring her head into a wall. ) It seems to trigger...something. He looked like he was actually waking up, aware, if anything. He pushed himself onto his knees, finally sitting along the carpet, with his back leaning against the frame.

Beth feels herself relax, if only the tiniest bit. He clearly wasn't aggressive, or going anywhere anytime soon.

"See?" She rambles. "He's sort of this crazy huge phenomenon. Uh, I might be wrong, but I'm pretty sure his fame rose out of jazz culture. Well. In the sense that…" She paused awkwardly. "White music producers re-marketed typically considered 'black' music like blues and jazz into a pretty white package for the majority of the public and profited."

She glances at James, curious if that would get her a reaction, but he looks at her calmly, his eyes adding a little more pressure across her face. She could feel her face flushing from being so decidedly looked at for so long. This is why she could never stand the educational field. She'd die, completely evaporate, from the sheer exasperation of people staring at her, all day, every day.

They listen for a while, or at least, Beth _feels_  like he is, until he drops his head low again. Beth stiffens as she looks over at him.

A slow crawl of discomfort slides across his face, his brows drawing together, eyes squeezing tight, like a wince.

"What is it?" Beth asked lightly. When he didn't respond, Beth felt her jaw tighten. "Look, if you don't use your words, I can't do anything to help you."

James only moved further away from her, his head downcast, his fleshy hand grasping at the back of his neck. He shook his head, the closest Beth was going to get to an answer.

"Okay. So you're obviously in pain." She could feel that strange impulse for control taking over, some nurse-like drive to help a patient, despite how badly her lungs compacted anxiously to get close to her would-be killer.

Beth's only twists her fingers together, buying time, glancing about the small hotel as of it could give her some kind of answer on how to react. She was scared of him, but a part of her nibbled annoyingly over the very real consequence that if she didn't help, that if she just stood by, she'd be in danger. What if this man was more aware than she had thought? What if those intense blue eyes were memorizing every moment they had together? What would it mean to him, if anything at all, to watch some broken-armed, pixie cut woman to stare at him as he suffers? Furious? Disheartened? Would he not even care? Why should she care after what he did? Even if it was clear he didn't have much of a choice... A Stockholm syndrome answer to a much fucked up situation.

Slowly, carefully moving in a short, straight-line walk to show the soldier that she wasn't coming at him, she enters the bathroom and returns, shaking a jar of little white tablets.

She stops just short, nervous to get any closer. "Silver bells" continues between them...but James doesn't move. His reactions are beyond slow, like he doesn't get what is going on.

"Here." She offers the two tiny pills of aspirin with a near-trembling hand, still nervous about closing the once comfortable distance between them. "Take these."

James flickers his eyes to her palm, the look on his face so suddenly startled that Beth quickly pulls her hand back. "I know that these probably won't do anything, but it's all I got, alright?"

She sits, an arms' length away, and carefully offers her palm again, giving the tablets a little jump along the curve of skin. "Come on. Maybe you could just placebo effect yourself into feeling them" She cringes internally at how Steve had downed cough medicine for no other reason than just to appear normal. To do something normal just for her.

"God, you're just like my brother. He hated taking medicine, too. The silent treatment isn't too far off, either."

Beth switches gears. She leans back, seated along the carpet and pulls her hand away. She then flicks a pill into her mouth, making a bit of a show before she swallows. She then turns back to James, trying to give him a muted expression that says  _See? Totally not dying._

James only looks at her pointedly, his eyes locking onto the pills as he contemplates, the gears gaining speed inside of his head. Beth pops the other pill, swallowing it drily. She gives a little cough, covering her mouth with her hand as she croaks: "They're kind of powdery but they're flavorless."

She tips the squat bottle and tries again, offering three this time. She matched James hard stare, scooting her hand closer until she could nearly touch his arm. She relaxes her fingers, barely allowing her fingertips to graze his skin. Startling slow, James reaches forward, clumsily grasping the pills before pulling away. He gives each one a look over, eyeing Beth suspiciously from the corner of his tightened eyes, before he slugs them back into his mouth, swallowing the pills soundlessly.

Then, he reaches out his hand again, a signifier for more.

Beth stalls back, half impressed that she actually got this to work, and half amused to how quickly James seemed to understand her own theory. They're different, he and she, and perhaps he's recalling size or weight, or the fact that Beth certainly was no super soldier, but he gets that this isn't enough. Even if the normal over-dose amount for one human was probably double the bottle, if not triple. Maybe the guy wasn't so brain dead after all.

She slips about a dozen more pills into her hand and gently drops them into James' waiting palm, watching with safely treading eyes at the automatic, mechanical way James downs the pills once more, this time giving a satisfying crunch between closed teeth.

"Hey," Beth remarks suddenly at the sound. "You aren't supposed to chew them!"

James continues to split the pills between his teeth, giving her a remarkably aware look, a cool side-eye, almost like he's toying with her. Maybe she's just that desperate, but Beth can't help but continue to guess at what he might be attempting to say. Like a,  _yeah, what're you gonna do about it?_

Beth frowns, pushes her hair in a routine gesture only to come up short. She fingers find air at her shoulders. The act of distracting herself with her hair is stripped away. Shit. She drops her hand limply.

"I'm just saying," is all she adds.

She picks up the bottle again to re-read the instructions, only to flinch slightly when James prods her, a little too roughly, with the back of his hand. His blue eyes tense over her, frustration leaking across his perspiring face. He flexes his hand as she had done, searching for more aspirin.

Beth can't help but feel a tiny bit sorry for him. Sweating when it was this cold outside, the frost boarding up the second story windows, and James looks miserably warm. "That bad, huh?"

James gives a slight clear of his throat, which Beth takes for a  _hurry up_. For a moment, Beth feels her blood spike as she expects his words to follow. Finally, they can actually converse!—before the rough, low sound dies away. He merely taps at her again, this time the effort far weaker.

So their whole  _Me-Tarzan, You-Jane_  thing was  _definitely_  nowhere in the range of customary, but Beth could work with it.

"I just gave you, like, sixteen of these things." Beth explains, her voice coaxing, feeling he stomach flip at talking this way to a grown man—because, seriously, James was  _unbelievably_ intimidating, even without the muzzle and gun. She hopes she doesn't sound at all like how Ross would have. "Can...can you tell me how many more you'd like?" She tests the question, her heart starting to calm back down.

So, this was gonna take more time than she had thought. James stares at her, his dark brows merely contorting together.

"I don't know what to do here." Beth tries again. "You gotta help me out. You have to tell me what you want. I don't know how many you can take, how much would be enough." Perhaps none of the pills would ever be  _enough_ , in all actually, but still. "You won't tell me how you work."

James shifts just an inch more towards her, his hand tapping at her urgently. He widens his eyes at her, his mouth in a hard line, before he closes his fingers back into a fist. Beth heart leaps at the movement, frozen, waiting, feeling like a deer studied by a wolf, before James thumps his fist into the carpeted floor beneath them, the sound muffled. He uncurls his fingers again, laying them across the carpet, mindlessly pulling at the plush. Beth lets out a short breath, easing her blood pressure back down. She sucks in a deep breath through her nose and, before she has time to tell herself 'no', to feel fear skitter across the length of her arm, she picks up James' hand and swiftly deposits ten more pills. She yanks her hand back instantly, pulling away from their enclosed personal space, needing the distance.

James drops his head down, staring into his now filled palm, almost as if the thought of raising his hand to his mouth was no longer worth the effort. Beth chews at her bottom lip absently, unsure if she made the right choice. With a slight sound of exertion, James tosses the entire handful into his mouth, missing a few as they scatter into his lap. He swallows the rest without chewing them, surprisingly. He looks uncomfortable as he swallows. Then, he drops his head back, resting it along the side of the bed, the cream comforter, a hand to cover his eyes as yet another spasm of pain passes through him.

Beth can't bring herself to get as close as she was before, but she walks to the doorway to lower the lights, taking a cue that maybe that is what is chasing his headache around. Hell, migraine of the century. She then turns back, her padding extra quiet as she makes her way to the room's common desk and hard, square hair along 'her' side of the room, sitting down. She crosses her arms, slightly chilled, although from the actual cold or shock or whatever she was supposed to feel, Beth couldn't say.

James didn't move his hand away from his eyes again, so, if the light changed helped, he certainly didn't show it. He does, however, press the back of his head harder into the side of the bed frame, as if searching for something firm to brace himself against. He pulls his knees up to his chest, his metal arm still motionless at his side, digging his fingers into his face with the flesh of his hand, his breathing finally reaching Beth's hears, painful and labored.

Beth feels herself curling up in her chair just to look at him, helpless. She wouldn't know how to help even if she had the bravery to try. She leans her head down into the arms, and flattens herself dimly against the wood of the desk.

So,  _this_  is what it feels like to be on the other side of that wall. The wall where Ronda watched her from. The plane where Ross perched, her stare cold and crucifying. But there was nothing she could do to really help. It's just…Beth never imagined she'd be getting a firsthand view of it from her  _assassin_.

She feels her fingers harden over the desk's surface.  _Don't forget. Don't forget what he is._  She peeks at James, pulling her sore arm into her lap. He's swaying now, ever so slightly, the indents from his hands puncturing the skin around his eyes, nose. The rest of his face beaming with droplets of sweat. With the way he's shaking, he looks dangerously close to being sick. It's a familiar pose. A vulnerable, wrenching exposure that Beth can't mistake.

He looks just like her, those nights in her bathroom, curled up and moaning faintly.

_Don't forget what he's done._

Beth crunches her eyes tightly, her nerves twisted around inside of her, pricking at her heart, tugging her compassion wires into a forced, taut knot. What could she do? What could she possibly do? Why should she?  _Stop it! Stop it!_  She nearly feels the words quiver out of her mouth, as if screaming at him would make any difference.

Releasing a growl of frustration from her lips, Beth stands, her whole body trembling. She approaches James as calmly as she can, kneeling down into the carpet, her hands posed as if to touch him. This close, she can actually hear him whimpering, the sound lost in the back of his throat, replaced occasionally by a gulp of air. She forces herself through it. She forces the room to be a hospital and herself to not be a college drop out. Her right arm spasms in pain as she leans forward…

...It's no use. She still can't touch him.

She curls her fist, debating before she speaks, her voice low, as soothing as she can possibly make it, giving who she's taking to. "I'm going to be right back. I'm going to get you ice. Okay?"

James responds about as well as Beth expected him to—he gives her no indication of even knowing she had spoken at all. Beth wonders if that will soon the only 'normal' thing between them.

She rushes to the door and into the cold night air, making her way down the empty, quiet hallway until she finds the ice machine. She snatches a free standing circular cooler from the hotel dispensary and fills the entire bucket to the brim. She grabs another empty bucket with her sore hand just in case, swinging it airily as she walks. Maybe they'd need more ice. Maybe James would actually throw up. It was hard to tell.

She opens the door noisily, dropping the empty bucket close to the desk before dragging the full one over to James. He doesn't seem to have changed from the moment before. If anything, he just looks more crumpled, hand scrambling at his face like be might just claw his own skin off. Beth's mind briefly pictures that to-the-nose black muzzle she had first seen him in and suddenly it made a little more sense.

Okay. Now came the hard part. She sinks to her knees, bucket by her side, her thoughts pulsing through her brain, trying to remember any ounce of her training from those New York incident waiting rooms. He'd be too heavy to move. Far too strong to attempt to wrestle his hand away from his face. She'd have to be smart about it.

With a fluttering hesitation, Beth reaches forward, running the cool back of her hand against the exposed veins winding skin along his throat. She could feel the tension collected there, his heart double timing so hard that a normal person would no doubt be unconscious. Her hand is pulled back, considering, before she is up once again, yanking a hand towel from its rack in the bathroom and sprinting back to James.

She carefully dips an edge of the towel into the ice and wrings it out, her hand shaking as she forces herself to press the damp, cold towel to his throat. She feels his entire body shudder from the sudden decline in temperature, but he doesn't fight back. His breathing slackens for a moment, ripping a hand away from his face, eyes narrowed to slits as he wildly takes in the room, the towel, the hand, Beth's face. He so pale, he's nearly white. Beth curses, the swear loud in the quiet of the room. But she has his attention.

"Okay. Okay. This sucks, I get it. This is a living hell for you, I relate. But I'm trying to help. Okay?"

James swallows thinly, causing his facial muscles to twitch unapologetically. His mouth opens. No words. He shudders again as she moves the cloth upwards, under his chin, along his right cheek—until, from underneath her grip, Beth feels the clammy flesh of James' fingers pull the cloth from her, hostaging it from her grasp so he can press his entire face into it, curling into the cold, wet cloth, a heave causing his body to convulse.

Beth shifts back, gasping herself, pulling the images of how those fingers once encircled the back of her head to crush her—shatters them somewhere inside of her, hiding the wordy pieces beneath other thoughts like,  _I need warm water. I need to do something. If he starts screaming, if someone calls the police, we're fucked._

Warm water it is. Into the other bucket. She squeezes another cloth between her good hand and, this time, curls it around his shoulders, uncaring of how much she's watering the sheets over the bed. She pulls back again, fingers curled, ready for the rest of it, any sign of reprieve. Maybe she was a bit better at this than she had originally thought; she had got Steve through something similar, after all.

Steve. Her insides twists. She pushes away, managing her pain. Not now. He's not important right now.

Finally, James seems to settle, but it's an eerie calm. He keeps swallowing, the sound thick to Beth's ears. She faintly gives the cold cloth a tug, easily pulling it from his grasp, before she chills it again, handing it back. This time, James doesn't respond, he just lists a little to the side, away from Beth, like his center of balance was off—without thinking she grasps his shoulder—the metal one, the groves and plates in-humanly smooth beneath her fingers, and pulls him back up with the rest of her strength, straining to not fall over with him. A sound of protest rumbles from his locked mouth as he stays upright.

"Yeah, I bet. " Beth fills in for what he can't, or maybe isn't going to say. "Not yet. I know what you don't want to do. I'm telling you, you'll feel better if you just let it happen." She nudges the ice water bucket, slowly melting, towards him. "Seriously. It's okay to throw up."

James looks at her, that same side stare, but suddenly so much frailer. He lightly moves his head back and forth, swallowing again, the sound overly wet. Beth scowls in aggravation. Now he was really acting like her brother. Like medicine, anything that made her brother even slightly gag was a complete disaster. The fear of vomiting followed him straight into his adult days. Beth never really understood the fear entirely. Maybe she just hurled too much to really think it was a choice.

Beth tilts the bucket before James, sloshing the ice around, watching his expression struggle to maintain itself over obvious nausea. It's strange to think how human he actually looks when he's strung out. Beth can only hope that this means she's getting closer to the man trapped somewhere inside of the machine.

"I shouldn't have let you take those pills," Beth offers quietly. "I mean, I don't know if this is just...going to happen from time to time or if I added to it." She grimaces, a hand to her hair, finding empty space, letting it drift to her shoulder, holding herself slightly. "Please just listen to me."

James lurches, a hiss of anger escaping him as he slips, the tight mask across his face cracking, huffing his shoulders as he leans down, fumbling for the bucket. He sinks his face into the surface of the ice and sighs. Beth resists the faint amusement that plays along the tense wires of her anxiety that is able to point out how insanely bizarre, yet humorous it is to see her killer-protector-possible-ally-person-doesnt-even-know-his-own-name-yet face first in a bucket of compacted ice. She carefully pats his metal shoulder one time before standing, giving distance. "Fine. Have it your way."

She walks the small room again, once more at lost at what to do. She was back in New York. She was back with real people and civilization. She was back with television and girlie magazines and windows. But yet, she couldn't escape this new part of her. James was that man that had leapt to his feet, alive and full of conviction, quite literally,  _irrevocably,_  for her alone. That strange thrill of power that she never had before. Those ten words that shined like a new sheet of bullet proof glass between her and the world she was once so afraid of.

Now, trembling from a cheap hotel room in Harlem, Beth couldn't help but feel a little afraid of herself.

She wouldn't use those words again. Her stomach churns uneasily at the idea that it was due to  _her_ that James' is ill. Just like when she saw him in Pierce's labs. She presses her fingers over the he eyes, the spots dancing like gun fire, the sound of broken necks, alarms blaring,  _people screaming to run_ —she breathes out.

She didn't pull the trigger but she certainly killed those people in that base. She didn't tell James to stop. She didn't know if she could remember the words anymore, the humanity that would have told her that she could have commanded this soldier to do practically anything. And she just let him kill. And kill. And kill.

The gun hanging limp at her side, as every new body between them and the doors, the plane hangar, meant she was a little less guilty.  _She was still the victim_ , her brain weakly washed over her instincts, trying to compel herself to believe it. She wasn't killing these people…James was...and yet…

And yet the only thing she could feel with every raging fiber of her being was the  _fight_. Ross told her she was going to die. The look on James' face in Steve's apartment told her she was going to die.

_It was me, or it was them._  Beth squeezes her eyes so tightly that she thinks she'll pop, the stupid, insubstantial, idiotic creature she always knew she was inside.

_It was me or it was them,_  her thoughts stutter out, but her chest constricts, suffocating her, the world a sudden black trail of ellipses. That was always the trade off, the second guess like a fresh slap to the face.

_...Was it? Was it really? And why you?_  Her guilt climbs up her bones, splinters around her windpipe, tightening its nails.  _Why did you live, yet again, when so many better people could have? Why spare you at the hands of the Chitauri, the horrifying James Barnes, the people at HYDRA?_

Was she….supposed to be dead by now?

She sighs exhaustedly, not realizing she was on knees on the floor once again, her back to James. She turns herself slowly around to face him, her entire body drained. She loosely runs her eyes over him, the coarse, vain struggle he was still suffering through to God knows what end, probably only making sense to himself.

HYDRA was a terrible place. Of that, Beth was certain. And her and James—they were free of it. At least, for now. And she realizes that she wasn't entirely alone in there.

It was really  _us_  or them, she thinks, her stomach prickling with untapped nerves, the revulsion of actually beginning to group herself alongside the waking zombie as some kind of functioning unit. She nearly laughed, edging on hysterical, but she kept it inside. It was getting easier to rationalize this new, obscene life to herself, the more she thought of it as some kind of bad, half horror, half dark comedy film.

And Steve told her  _he_  was the bad actor. How little did he know.

Beth sighs, crossing her arms roughly, hurting her injured hand. Steve.

Holy shit. Holy shit.

She was sitting here, and he was...out here...somewhere. Being Captain America. And she was sitting here, attempting to smash together the remains of her sanity alongside his  _best friend_  of the last 70 years.

His friend...that didn't even remember him.

A horrible, wet cough stirred Beth from her thoughts. It was just as she had suspected. She glanced only lightly to see the hunched outline of James' own body getting the better of him.

She tries her best not to listen, but in a single room with someone, it's hard not to. It sounds painful, his breathing shortening, until it's finally over. He lifts his head up from the bucket, mouth open, eyes closed. To Beth's dismay, he doesn't appear much better.

She resists an  _I told you so_ as she pads closer, grabbing a towel to hand over to him, which he doesn't take. He cracks open his eyes to peer at her, reminding her all the more of some stubborn teenager than a grown, sensible man. He grimaces again, coughing. For a heartbeat, Beth thinks he's going to speak. Maybe say 'thank you', or, 'don't even start with 'I'm right' crap.' but he just lingers, somewhere between staring through her and into her, like the busted pieces of his mind are forming some kind of conclusion about her.

He breaks away from Beth, sighing lowly, grabbing at his face in a tired attempt to get the sweat off of him, and pushing the bucket away with a knee. He slumps in a vacillating way, his metal arm holding himself up as he reels towards the carpet. Once he's down, Beth expects him to be fully passed out, but his eyes blink open again, flickering to Beth's like he's signaling a single, distant question.

Beth sits an arm's length away, legs folded under her. She studies James with a watchful, weary expression. At least if he fell asleep and awakens to throw up again, he'd be in the recovery position, but still, he looks all the more uncomfortable laying there like a used, empty Coke can.

"What?" She asks him, rising her eyebrow ever so slightly, a smirk playing on her lips. "You asking me for permission to lay down now? I thought you had it all under control."

James' drops his eyes again, his face buried into the carpet for a moment, covering a brief look of what could possibly be an shallow wash of  _'no'_  or maybe he's just internally telling Beth to go fuck herself. She can't help but chuckle lowly either way.

She picks up the towel and pushes it close to his fingers. "Here. You'll look a little less wasted if you use this."

His fingers pull at the cloth but it doesn't move far. Beth clicks her tongue, trying to keep the snicker out of her voice. "I told you you'd feel better."

James refuses to open his eyes, but a slight jump of his fingers tells her he's listening. "I promise I'm not making fun of you." She blows out a near silent puff of air between her lips, steadying herself. "You just have to understand how absolutely crazy these past hours...days...have been."

She glances at her injured arm, feeling suddenly numb. She takes her left hand to rub gently over her broken fingers in her right hand, tugging idly. The question was unspeakable for her, unanswerable for him:  _Do you remember doing this to me?_

_Do you remember what you do to people?_

Beth stops. Sighs. The sound is deep and sad. One thing at a time, then.

"James," She calls his name quietly, the natural reaction to reach forward, to smooth his hair, clean his face, but she can't. It's so hard to touch him. Too much. Too painful.

"James." She tenses, waiting for his reaction. And it comes, gradually, one eye open to stare at her dimly, his expression half-asleep. She swears he can actually control one eyebrow to move at will, to convey his internal silence, but it isn't much help now. There is nothing left in him. Not a drop of Beth's projected sarcasm, wishful stubbornness. "Don't sleep here."

That eye looks at her heavily, barely following.

"You…you did that before. When we first got here. There's a bed right behind you. Use it."

Beth shifts over, her legs pins-and-needling her as she uses the comforter to pull herself up. She strips the sheets down, folds the pillows into a bit of a pile. She then pads back to the body on the floor. James' face was still just sickly pale, matching the cream of the carpet. She swallows, wondering if she should give him a little kick or something. Not hard. Just to get him to move.

She blows more air, hot and annoyed, out of her mouth. If only she had a stick. She eyes the warm water bucket with a slight, dark desire. Or...a bucket?

No, no, she pushes the thought away. James would need to shower at some point in they were to brave the world of going back into pedestrian society. But not now.

She stares down at him, lips pursed.

"Nice try. I know you can still hear me."

Nothing.

Beth glares. "Seriously? Do you just prefer the ground?  _Arh."_  She drags a hand through her hair, short and straight to her ears. "I'll make you move." She glares at the bed, snatches a pillow, and then crouched low. She then taps his side, just a little, with the soft weight of it. "What the hell has my life become," She says to herself only, hitting James with a little more force. "I have a brother, you know." Beth finds herself telling James' limp form. "I can do this  _all_  day."

Without warning, James snaps his eyes open, the world tilting under him as he pushes himself to sit up. His eyes are huge, unsure, as he looks around. Beth immediately drops the pillow, peeling backwards as fast as she can. But James merely stares everywhere but at her.

Was...was it something she said? She quickly runs over her thoughts to find nothing unusual. She takes advantage.

"Okay, good." She inches forward again, gingerly picking up the pillow to prod the soldier just a little. "Up. Come on. The bed is right there."

The grace that Beth had come to find within him as the Super Soldier is gone. He grasp a fistful of the blankets to barely pull himself up, dragging his way across the mattress until he drops, face first into the pillows. Beth buffets, so close to her goal. Now if only he laid on his side or something, anything but face down. She can't bear to tell an Avenger that she let his best friend drown in a pool of his own sick.

She coils the pillow between her fists and hits him with a little more force the necessary—"YOU—ARE— THE—WORST!" She yells with every smack, until finally, with an exasperated groan, James turns onto his side, curling up as he had on the slab table. There, she draws back, panting a little. That would teach him.

As soon as he's comfortable, it's over. His breathing evens out faster than Beth can blink. And it's over.

Jesus, Beth thinks, he's doing it on purpose. She can just  _feel_  it.

She walks back over to collect the buckets and turns them out in the bathroom, eyeing the shower herself.

Well. Now was a better time than ever to inspect her own damage. With one last look at James she gives the bathroom door a quick lock.

She scrubs herself raw with the shampoo, soap, even conditioner, not even caring if she's using it wrong. She's in and out very quickly, suddenly eager to hear the radio again. If James wasn't going to be talking to her soon, that was fine. She could make it work. She'd have to make it work until she found Ronda or Steve or anyone else that understood how messed up this all was.

She dries off and reluctantly puts back on her black sweatshirt and pants given to her at the HYDRA base, setting aside their reminders of before. At least they're warm.

She takes a seat against the bedside, her back against the frame and pulls the long wire of the clock radio out from around the wooden stand and slides the device into her lap.

If she calls her mom now, she'd be hysterical. If she called Ronda, Ronda would be inconsolable. So Beth flickers on the radio, keeping the volume barely up, trying to stay quiet, but with her hearing, she knows that if James was still awake, he'd undeniably be hearing it no matter what.

First, static then, a voice. A real, human voice that isn't her own.

"...and that was Elvis Presley's 1951 holiday classic "Blue Christmas". We, here at news Tower 98. 7, certainty hope you folks aren't having a blue Christmas. In fact, we seem to be striking midnight here and so I am thrilled to wish you all a very MERRY CHRISTMAS and a HAPPY NEW YEAR!"

Beth leans back, letting the words trickle over her.

Christmas.

Today, as of midnight, is Christmas. No phone call from mom. No letter with secret compartment with hidden money from dad. No Ronda jumping up and down on her couch. Not even her brother, his voice garbled over the miles between them, probably drunk with his squad, cheering at her.

Just silence, as any other night before. Except from the sudden, slight quiver from the man lying in the bed behind her, his breathing punctuated occasionally by a snore, Beth flexes her fingers over the radio, nearly giving it a hug to her chest.

Christmas. It's Christmas. She loves Christmas. Loved Christmas. But it doesn't feel any different. Not like this. Not within this room and those HYDRA people, their bodies lying back in Germany...did they have kids? Where was their Christmas? Did…did they really deserve…

"Merry Christmas," She whispers to herself, letting the tears roll down her cheeks. She isn't sure why she's suddenly so sad, she was just trying to take everything one thing at a time…she'll see everyone soon…everything would be okay so very soon… She bites her lip, trying to suppress its trembling, and the uncontrolled burst of a sob as she clutches the radio tighter.

"Merry Christmas." She says again, her voice breaking.

Only the quiet hum of the radio answers her back.

* * *

**AN:**  I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. Maybe write a review, lemme know? A few words? It means the world.

What was that? YOU SAY YOU WANT TO FINALLY MEET BETH'S BROTHER? I SAID 'WHAT'? YELL IT LOUDER. YOU KNOW WHO'S COMING TO TOWNNNNNNNNNNNNNN.

ps. it's not santa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. Maybe write a review, lemme know? A few words? It means the world.
> 
> What was that? YOU SAY YOU WANT TO FINALLY MEET BETH'S BROTHER? I SAID 'WHAT'? YELL IT LOUDER. YOU KNOW WHO'S COMING TO TOWNNNNNNNNNNNNNN.
> 
> ps. it's not santa.


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